


Bad Magic

by weirwitch



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Childhood Friends, Death Eaters, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Pureblood Culture (Harry Potter), Pureblood Politics (Harry Potter), Pureblood Society (Harry Potter), Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-01-15 00:35:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21244610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weirwitch/pseuds/weirwitch
Summary: Quinn Avery has never wanted for anything.The latest racing broom?  She already has it.  Luxury vacation to Paris?  She’s been eight times already (and counting).  A pair of ridiculously expensive diamond earrings she merely glanced at in the shop?  Her mother’s already standing in line to make the purchase.Perhaps that’s why a boy with platinum blond hair (and, quite possibly, the worst personality out of everyone she’s ever met) is able to catch her attention so easily;  because for once, simply wanting something is not enough to have it served to her on a silver platter.All is fair in love and romance, and no one knows foul play like Draco Malfoy.





	1. 𝐈.  Up in Flames

⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𝐐 𝐔 𝐈 𝐍 𝐍

𝐈𝐓 was the first day of school and the fifteenth year of Quinn Avery’s life.

Dread was coiling inside her tummy like a snake as she sifted through her jewelry collection, in search of a necklace that would match her outfit. She had spent _hours_ the night before fretting over what clothes to wear, and in the end had decided upon a black satin slip dress that reached her mid–thigh, as well as a pair of knee–length socks and heeled ankle boots. Quinn thought the outfit made her look very grown–up, but she had to be careful; all it would take was the wrong necklace to ruin her hard work.

Today marked the beginning of her fifth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and she couldn’t be less excited. Months had passed since she last used magic or even held her wand in her hand, and though she missed it, she had come to the conclusion that she was willing to give all that up for good if it meant she didn’t have to write her O.W.L exams at the end of the year.

... On second thought, perhaps that was a _bit_ of an exaggeration. This summer holiday had been the worst without magic yet, and Quinn wasn’t sure she could bear to live through another, let alone the rest of her life.

She had been forced to clean her room _three separate times_ over the course of her time off, all without the support of her wand or her father’s house–elf, Linny. Her mother claimed that it would teach her ‘responsibility’, but all it taught her was that she should learn to appreciate being born into a wizard family, because she would not have survived long had she been born a Muggle.

“Mistress Quinn has received a letter,” she heard Linny’s wavering voice announce from outside her walk–in closet. “It’s from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!”

Reluctantly, Quinn set the diamond necklace she’d been considering back down on its stand and stepped outside. Linny was waiting for her in her bedroom, shifting uncomfortably from one bare foot to the other, an envelope with a red seal clasped tight in one of her pale, wrinkled hands.

“Give it here,” Quinn commanded, and as obedient as ever, Linny stood up on her tiptoes and handed her the envelope. “You should go downstairs now. They’ll be expecting you to prepare breakfast soon, I would imagine.”

Linny bowed and took her leave, shutting the door behind her with the snap of a finger.

Quinn did not wait to read the letter. As soon as Linny was gone, she sat down on the edge of her bed and opened the envelope, breaking the wax seal of her school crest with a soft _crack._

To her surprise, there was not _just_ a paper tucked up inside; there was also something small and silvery, cold to the touch. _A badge,_ she realized, upon further inspection. When she turned it over in her hand, she saw that it was green and silver, the colours of Slytherin House.

It was only when she saw the capitalized “P” adorning the center in ornate lettering that recognition came, seizing her heart and squeezing the joy from it like a snake strangling its prey.

She had been selected as prefect.

“Quinn, dear,” she could hear her mother calling downstairs. “We’re going to eat breakfast soon!”

Quinn cupped her hands around her mouth. “Just a moment, please,” she shouted. Then she unfolded the letter and began to read.

She wished she could say that she was surprised, but it was just as she had feared. Penned by Professor Severus Snape, the letter detailed her appointment as prefect of Slytherin House, complete with his congratulations and a brief list of her new responsibilities.

_Responsibilities._ She felt her stomach sink with dread. There was nothing she loathed more.

“Quinn,” her mother called again. This time she was upstairs, just outside her bedroom door. “If you don’t come down for breakfast now, you won’t be having any.”

_That isn’t such a bad idea,_ Quinn thought miserably. Starving herself to death sounded more enjoyable than complying with her duties as prefect, strutting around the school like a peacock with its tail feathers fanned out and deducting House points whenever she pleased. Was there a quicker way to get all of her classmates to hate her?

A sharp rap sounded at her door, derailing her train of thought. “This is my last warning, Quinn.”

“I’m coming, for Merlin’s sake,” she snapped, her voice petulant. If there was anything she loathed more than responsibility, it was being told what to do.

In a huff, Quinn stood from the edge of her bed, slammed the badge and letter down on her nightstand, slid into a pair of unicornskin slippers, and stepped into the hall, where her mother was waiting for her.

Esmeralda Avery was slender and graceful, with long golden hair that tumbled over her shoulders in waves. A pair of emerald earrings gleamed amidst the curls, shining like a pair of green stars when the light of the hall chandelier reflected off them.

“You look lovely today, Quinnie Bear,” she cooed. “I would consider wearing a necklace with that dress, however. Your decollétage looks rather plain.”

“I was in the middle of choosing one when you interrupted,” Quinn told her. It was only half a lie; that was what she had been doing before Linny came in with the letter. “And for the millionth time, stop calling me Quinnie Bear. I’m not a child anymore.”

“You’ll always be a child to me,” her mother insisted.

Quinn didn’t have the patience to argue, so she trudged down the steps of the marble staircase in silence, still sulking over her appointment as prefect. _There’s almost forty of us, and he chooses me,_ she thought glumly. It was just her luck.

When she and her mother entered the dining room, she saw that the twins, Sage and Coriander, were already seated at the table, picking at what little remained of their breakfasts. “How kind of you to finally join us,” Cori teased with an easy smile as she settled into the chair next to him.

He was seventeen, two years her senior, with curling blond hair and their father’s deep green eyes. Quinn had been told that they looked alike for as long as she could remember, but it was really her sister, Sage, who she longed to resemble out of the pair. She was beautiful while Quinn was plain, ample while she was flat, tall and willowy while she was short, and graceful while she was so clumsy that some days she almost had to check if she had two left feet.

It was exceedingly frustrating being the ugly sister, and it didn’t help that Cori was perfect, too. Sometimes when Quinn was little, she wondered if the twins had taken all of their parents’ beauty and poise, and by the time she was born, there had been nothing left to give her. Often it felt that way.

Her mother sat at the foot of the table, across from her father, who sat at the head, as tall and dignified as ever. Today he had opted to wear a sleek black suit with a green tie, typical business attire for a member of the Ministry. “Linny has informed me that you received a letter from Hogwarts this morning,” he mused when he caught her staring.

She blinked. “Oh, yes... About that... I’ve been selected as prefect.” There had been a chance, however slim, for her to convince Professor Snape to choose someone else. That chance was gone now.

At the foot of the table, her mother’s face lit up with joy. “Oh, how wonderful,” she gushed, clasping her hands together. The bracelets and bangles on her wrists gave a chorus of soft clinks. “Cori is Head Boy, Sage is a prefect, and now you are, too. That’s all three children. I’m so proud.”

“Congratulations,” her father said solemnly. “Lucius tells me that Draco was selected as prefect this year as well.”

_As if it wasn’t bad enough already._ She pretended to vomit.

_“Quinn Avery,”_ her mother warned. “That is enough.”

“But it’s true,” she protested. “He’s a rotten, pompous, insufferable prat.”

Sage and Cori were laughing, but her mother did not seem amused. “You two bring your school trunks down to the living room. Your father and I need to have a word with your sister in private.”

Helpless, Quinn watched as her siblings stood from their seats and tramped upstairs, chatting away happily as they went. _This isn’t fair,_ she wanted to scream, but she knew that it would only serve to get her in more trouble. _I just_ had _to go and run my big mouth._ She found she did that often.

“I expect this childish animosity between you and Draco to end,” her mother said sternly. “If I receive another letter from school this year detailing your incessant bickering, you will spend the entirety of the next summer holiday in your room. Is that understood?”

“No, it isn’t,” Quinn flared. First, she was selected as prefect, and now her parents expected her to be friends with the most despicable person she’d ever had the displeasure of meeting. Could the day get any worse?

“Lucius and I are as close as brothers,” her father was lecturing from the head of the table, “just as our fathers were before us, and their fathers were before them. You and Draco were born two days apart; I don’t see why things should be any different with you.”

“Well, they are,” she told him. “He’s a bully and a git. Everyone with half a brain thinks so. He called one of my closest friends a ‘filthy Mudblood’.”

“Well, _is_ your friend a Mudblood?” Her father asked.

Quinn glared down at her lap. “That’s beside the point.”

“That is hardly beside the point,” her mother said. She reached across the table and took both her hands in her own. Her touch was comforting, soft and warm. “There is something that I must tell you about. Something your father and I should have told you about long ago.”

“Not now, Esmeralda,” Alastair warned. “She’s still a child.”

“Then when?” Her mother asked. Quinn couldn’t tell if it was anger she heard in her voice or fear. “He’s back, and that’s your excuse? She’s still going to be a child when the Second Wizarding War comes. We need to start preparing her _now._ Sage and Cori are hardly ready as it is, meanwhile Lucius and Narcissa have been preparing Draco since he was only—”

“That is enough.” Her father’s voice was sharp with impatience. “We will wait to tell her until she has turned sixteen, just as we did with the other children. On this matter, I will not change my mind.” With that, he stood from the table, his chair screeching as it slid against the floor behind him.

“Where are you going, Father?” Quinn asked. The Eggs Benedict on his plate looked as though it had hardly been touched.

“The Ministry,” he answered, without even bothering to look at her.

At this news, her mother rose from her seat as well. “You cannot be serious, Alastair. The children leave for Hogwarts today. This is Cori’s last year. Don’t you want to see them off?”

Her father was staring down at his reflection in the glass dining table as he adjusted his tie. “I’m afraid there is to be a meeting this morning. Of utmost importance, it would seem. You can handle sending the children off without me, I trust. After all, it’s you who wanted to send them there. If I’d had it my way, they would have gone to Durmstrang.”

Anger flashed in her mother’s pale green eyes. “I wanted them to be closer to home. To us.”

Her father gave a humourless scoff. “And look where that’s gotten them.” He was looking at her when he said that, his eyes dark with disdain; nothing but the coldest contempt.

Quinn shrank in her seat, wanting nothing more in that very moment than to just disappear.

Head down, she watched as his legs left the room, then her mother’s not long after, her high heels clicking with every step. The sound receded as she chased him further and further down the hall, and after that all Quinn could hear was their voices, muffled but clearly yelling.

“Go on upstairs, Quinnie Bear,” she heard Cori say behind her. “I’ll help you bring down your things. Sage laid out a necklace for you.”

Quinn could feel tears welling in her eyes, sudden and unwanted, blurring her vision. Hastily, she wiped them away with her hands, not wanting her brother to see her cry. “I... I haven’t eaten breakfast yet. I’m hungry.” Her tummy made a hollow, rumbly noise.

“You can order something on the train,” he told her. In the foyer where her parents were, she heard a door slam. “Upstairs, now.”

Quinn obeyed this time, and step by slow step began trudging up the stairs. Down below, she could hear her mother and Cori talking about something, but when she paused to listen, she found that she was too far to hear what was being said.

As promised, Sage had laid out a necklace for her, on the bench at the foot of her bed. Quinn held it up against the light with her forefinger and thumb.

It was a dainty choker, with a platinum chain and a small round opal in the center; beautiful, but not from her collection. She clasped it around her neck and wriggled her feet into the heeled ankle boots she had selected oh–so–carefully the night before, then turned to find her brother standing in her bedroom doorway.

“Ready?” He asked. The handle of her luggage was already in his grasp.

Terror filled her when she saw the empty carrier resting atop her school trunk. “Where is he?” She scanned the room but was unable to concentrate, blinded by panic.

“Where is who?” Cori asked. Then understanding came. “Now is not the time to be doing this, Quinnie. It’s half–past ten; we’re cutting it short as it is.”

She glared at him. “I won’t leave Silvertongue behind.” Then she turned back to her bedroom, scouring the furniture for any trace of the pale grey cat. “Silvertongue, where are you? Oh, please come out. I haven’t got the time to look for you.” An idea struck her then. “If you come out now, I’ll give you a treat.”

At that, the cat came crawling out from beneath her bed, his tail wagging lazily and a mischievous gleam in his amber eyes. She scooped him up off the floor and into her arms, then went to her nightstand to grab the bag of treats. _Good thing I did that as well,_ she thought. She had almost forgotten her prefect badge. _Wouldn’t that be awful..._

When she and Cori finally made it to the living room, their mother and Sage were already there, waiting.

“That’s twice this morning you’ve been late,” Sage said, reaching over to muss her hair.

Quinn twisted away from her. “Better late than never.”

“It might be never if we don’t get a move on,” her mother said. She was smiling, but her eyes were red and puffy, as though she’d been crying. “Do you three have everything you need?”

They nodded in unison.

“Your robes?” She asked.

“Yes,” they said at once.

“Your wands?”

“Yes.”

“Your hats, scarves, and mitts?”

“We have everything, Mother,” Sage said with a tightlipped smile.

“I just worry, is all,” Esmeralda explained. She reached up onto the mantel of the fireplace for a jar labeled ‘Floo Powder’, then sprinkled a pinch into each of their hands. “Cori, you go first and wait for your sisters on the other side. I’ll go last.”

With his luggage in tow, Cori stepped into the hearth, said, “King’s Cross Station”, and threw the Floo Powder down at his feet. In a flash of green fire so bright Quinn had to shield her eyes, her brother was gone, and soon enough Sage was, too.

It was Quinn’s turn now.

Tentative, she stepped into the fireplace. The Floo Network was popular for its reliability, but it was still prone to the occasional mishap, and she found that that was all she could think about every time she had to use it.

_Don’t be stupid,_ she told herself, staring down at the silvery powder in her hand. She gave it a hard squeeze, then observed the imprint her fingers left in the grains. _You psych yourself out every time, and every time the outcome is the same._ Even so, her tummy had gotten so fluttery that she felt as though she’d swallowed a bunch of those Cornish pixies Professor Lockhart released during Defense Against the Dark Arts in second year.

“Go on, Quinnie Bear,” her mother gently encouraged. “I’ll be right behind you.”

_It’s now or never._ Fear swept over her in a cold rush. She took a deep breath to calm herself, closed her eyes tight, yelled “King’s Cross Station” as clearly as she could muster, then threw the powder down at her feet.

When she opened her eyes again, the world had gone up in green flames.


	2. 𝐈𝐈. The Art of Subtlety

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first time writing for the Harry Potter universe, so if you feel that I mishandled the portrayal of any canon characters then please, do not be afraid to let me know! Thank you for taking the time to read, I appreciate it!

⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𝐐 𝐔 𝐈 𝐍 𝐍

“Avery, Quinn!”

The applause for Hannah Abbott died, and suddenly the Great Hall was silent.

Quinn’s legs felt like lead, heavy and stiff, as she stepped out of line and approached the four–legged stool at the top of the hall. _Everything will be alright,_ she told herself, and alright it was, until she stumbled on her way up the steps of the platform, in front of everyone. 

“What a clod!” She heard Draco Malfoy exclaim. There were sniggers then, far off and cruel. 

Her face seared. _That blithering idiot. On Merlin’s long–lost grave, I’ll hex him, once I’ve figured out how._ For a moment, her legs refused to move; she was mortified, frozen to the spot, worried that if she so much as breathed, she would fall again. Then she heard Professor McGonagall’s soft _‘ahem’_ and found her wits, taking slow, measured steps to the stool, and promptly sitting down.

The last thing Quinn saw before the hat dropped over her eyes was her brother, watching intently from the Slytherin table, his expression so tense and like her father’s that it made her forget how to breathe. Then it was just her and the darkness. 

_Interesting,_ said a sudden voice in her ear. Instinctively, her hands closed into fists in her lap. _Apologies. I seem to have frightened you._

She scowled into the darkness. _I’m not afraid. You startled me, that’s all._

_Of course,_ said the voice. _That’s some nerve you’ve got, and a stalwart heart, tried and true. You would do well in Gryffindor._

_Not Gryffindor,_ she thought at once. Quinn could see her father’s face staring back at her from the shadows, disappointment in those pale green eyes. _Slytherin. I have to be Slytherin._

“Quinn?”

She blinked.

“We’re going to go sit with Flint and the others now,” her sister was saying. “Are you alright?”

_Not at all._ “Yes. Superb, actually. If I were doing any better, there would have to be two of me.”

“Are you sure?” Asked Cori, not convinced. “You look upset.”

“Upset?” That was an understatement. The train hadn’t even departed for Hogwarts yet, and already it was one of the _worst_ first days of school Quinn had ever experienced. For starters, her father turned down seeing her and her siblings off at the station in favour of work, and left the manor that morning without so much as a wave goodbye. Then, as if it couldn’t get any worse, her cat briefly went missing, and to top it off, she was condemned to spend the rest of her evenings after curfew with her archnemesis, of all people. The first of September seemed to have dawned more cruel and miserable than ever that morning, and if it was any indication of what the rest of the school year would be like, then Quinn didn’t even want to imagine her O.W.L results.

She knew better than to start whinging on about any of that out loud, though. “I’m fine. Truly. Go sit with your friends.”

The twins exchanged a look of silent disbelief, but left away. It was just Quinn in the compartment after that, with Silvertongue curled up in her lap and fast asleep.

She remembered her very first day at Hogwarts all too well. The commencement of a young witch or wizard’s magical education was often said to be one of the best days of their lives, but for Quinn, it had been one of the worst. She had been sick with dread all day, worried that she would be sorted into the wrong house, and worse yet, disappoint her father. In the end, she _had_ been made a Slytherin, but some small part of her knew that it was because of her own volition, not fate. At times, it almost seemed as though her father knew, too.

She heard voices and laughter ringing from the corridor outside the compartment, and looked up just in time to see the glass door come sliding open, revealing her friends standing on the other side.

“Well, look who it is,” said Eleanor Shacklebolt. She was the daughter of her father’s coworker and the tallest among the three girls, with a head of dark corkscrew curls and a powdering of freckles across the bridge of a button nose. “You hardly wrote me this summer. I was beginning to think you’d died.”

“I should be so lucky,” Quinn said. She showed them her prefect badge. 

Louise Macmillan examined it closely, her dark eyes wide with disbelief. “_You,_ prefect?” She threw her head back and laughed that high shrill laugh of hers. “How absurd! Did Professor Snape decide by drawing lots?”

“Please, Lou, at least make _some_ effort to hide your jealousy,” Quinn teased. “The emotion does not become you.”

Her friends began settling into the compartment then, stowing their school trunks away in the overhead bin and sitting down on the blue velvet seats. “I think you’ll make a wonderful prefect, Quinn,” Aurelia Lovegood was saying, as soft and sweet as ever. “It won’t be so bad. Just think, you’ll get to use the _Prefects’ Bathroom_ from now on.” 

“As appealing as that sounds, it’s overshadowed by the fact that I’ll have patrol duty every night with that puffed–up sod, Malfoy,” she said, apparently much too loudly, for he appeared in the doorway shortly after, dressed in a dark suit without a single white–blond hair out of place.

“I’m flattered that you’re so fixated on me, Quinnifred, but try to keep it down,” he drawled. “Parkinson gets jealous.” Behind him, Crabbe and Goyle snickered.

“Careful,” said Quinn, with mock concern. “If your head gets any bigger, it might actually explode.” This time it was her friends’ turn to laugh.

“You’re funny,” he sneered, his tone dripping with insincerity. 

“You forgot to mention good–looking,” she said, taking brief satisfaction in the flush that crept up his neck. Then she drew her wand. 

Draco’s lips curled into a scowl. “Going to hex me for eavesdropping?”

“And give you the pleasure of tattling as soon as we arrive?” Quinn scoffed. “As much as I would like to, I would sooner not.” She pointed her wand at him. _“Clausumfores!”_

The door slammed shut right in front of him. Startled, Draco went back a step, then another, before falling hard on his arse, making her and her friends erupt into a gale of laughter.

Draco seemed less amused. With his face a mask of wounded dignity, he stood, straightened his blazer, and stomped off, his bumbling pair of bodyguards not far behind.

“I don’t think you’ll be needing to worry about patrol duty with him, after all,” Aurelia said. She hid her mouth behind her hands and giggled. “You seem to have it covered.”

“Hardly,” said Quinn. “If only I had used the Silencing Charm instead... Then I could have shut his big mouth instead of the door, and do everyone else on the train a favour.” 

The compartment door slid back open, and three figures stepped inside, flushed and breathless. Harry, Ron, and Hermione. 

“Quinn,” said Harry, sounding relieved.

She raised a brow. “Yes, that would be me.”

“Do you think we could have a moment to speak with you?” He asked. Then he shot a sideways glance at Louise, Eleanor, and Aurelia, and added, “in private?”

Her friends were less than impressed and made no effort to hide it, clearing out of the compartment with scowling faces and curses muttered under their breaths. Louise Macmillan was the last to leave and the rudest of all, throwing one last petulant glare over her shoulder as the door slid shut behind her.

“Why haven’t you answered any of my letters?” Harry asked once they were gone.

“That would require you sending one in the first place,” Quinn told him. “I wrote to you for your birthday _and_ sent you a present, and you still had the gall to ignore me. That was quite rude, you know. I was under the impression that we were friends.” She turned her nose up in the air. 

“We _are_ friends,” Harry insisted. “And I _did_ answer you. Thirty–six times, to be exact.” 

“Curious that the owl post messed up thirty–six times, then,” she mused, not believing a single word.

“That’s because it didn’t mess up,” he said. Then he turned to Hermione. “I don’t mean to say I told you so, but I told you so.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Just because she didn’t receive your letters doesn’t mean...” She glanced at Quinn, as though remembering she was there. “... Nevermind.” 

“Would anyone like to explain what’s going on?” Quinn asked.

Hermione bit her lip. “We... Well, Harry, mostly—”

“No, Hermione,” Harry warned. 

“He’s right,” said Ron. “He doesn’t even know that’s what he saw. No sense in dragging her into it just yet.” He rubbed his nose with the back of his hand.

Quinn’s patience was wearing thin. “As much as I love mysteries, I’m afraid I haven’t got the time to sit around watching you three argue all day. Things would be a lot less complicated if you stopped beating around the bush and just told me what was wrong instead.”

“Voldemort is back,” said Harry.

“Allegedly.”

“No, not allegedly. He _is._ You have to believe me.”

“Alright, alright. But what’s that got to do with me and your letters?” 

Harry stared down at the floor. “Nothing, I was just... Worried about you, is all,” he said carefully. 

“This is becoming quite tedious, you know,” Quinn said. “If you’re going to keep secrets, then you really ought to get better at hiding them.”

“Lucius Malfoy,” he blurted, his green eyes lifting to meet her own. “Have you seen him over the summer holiday?”

“Loads,” she said, “unfortunately.” Though Mr. Malfoy was certainly more tolerable than his windbag of a son, he still wasn’t the most pleasant person to talk to, nor the most open–minded. 

“Did he seem... Odd, at all?”

Her eyes narrowed. “If this is about him being a Death Eater, my father says he was cleared.”

Harry looked down and mumbled something unintelligible under his breath. 

“I beg your pardon. I’m afraid I missed that.” 

His gaze shot back up to meet hers. “Oh, nothing. We’ll let you and your friends chat now. Sorry for interrupting.” 

He stood to leave, but Quinn grabbed his hand, stopping him. “No, it’s alright. Stay.”

“You’re sure we aren’t intruding?” He asked.

“Of course not.” She smiled. “You guys are my friends, too. You know that.” She let go of his hand. “But you have to promise me one thing: no more secrets. If Lucius Malfoy was what you wanted to ask me about, then you should have just said so from the beginning.”

He nodded. “Right. No more secrets. Promise.” Suddenly restless, Harry stuffed his hands in his pants’ pockets and began shifting his weight from one foot to the other, then back again. “... I like the present, by the way. It’s cool.” 

It was then that Quinn realized he was wearing it; the jumper she got him from Twilfitt and Tattings. “I’m glad. It looks good on you. Brings out your eyes.” She sank back into her seat. “Now that that’s settled, I have something to show you.” 

Her hand went into her jacket, probing blindly in the deep pocket until her fingers brushed against something cold and stiff: her prefect badge. She took it out and showed them.

“You too?” Asked Hermione in girlish excitement. She held out one of her own, red and gold, the colours of Gryffindor House.

“Congratulations,” said Quinn. While being selected as prefect might not have been a particularly thrilling experience for _her,_ she could tell that it was for Hermione, and she wasn’t about to dampen the mood with her own self–pity. “You deserve it.”

“Don’t forget about me,” said Ron. He rummaged in his pants’ pockets and came up empty–handed. “Bloody Hell. I think I’ve lost the damn thing already.”

“Of course you did, Ronald,” said Hermione, shaking her head.

“You say it like it’s my fault,” Ron went on, as stubborn as ever. “If it wasn’t so small, I wouldn’t have even lost it in the first place. You’d reckon they’d make them a bit bigger.”

Quinn tried to hold back a giggle, but it broke free as soon as she met Harry’s gaze. At first, he seemed equally amused by the situation, but as his laughter died down, she thought she glimpsed hurt in his bright green eyes.

“So, do you know who the other Slytherin prefect is?” He asked. Ron and Hermione went quiet beside him, waiting to hear her answer.

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, so I’ll let you guess,” she told them.

“It’s Malfoy, isn’t it?” Asked Harry, his face falling in disappointment. 

She nodded. “Sadly.” 

A sharp rap sounded at the door, and Louise stuck her head inside. “Can we come back in now?” She asked, in a voice that suggested she was going to either way. “Gregory Goyle just asked me to the Masquerade Ball. I need somewhere to vomit.” 

“We’ll see you at school,” said Harry. He stood and straightened his jumper. Ron and Hermione followed suit. 

“You can stay if you want, Hermione,” Quinn offered. 

Hermione shot a nervous glance at the other girls. “I really should head back to our compartment... I was hoping to get a bit of reading done before we arrived.” 

Quinn understood. Her friends were intimidating, to say the least; Louise Macmillan most of all. She had not been the kindest to Hermione in previous years. “Alright. Be seeing you, then.”

The train began to move. 

“That Granger girl thinks she’s too good for us,” Louise was saying, once Harry and the others were gone. “Pretty absurd, if you ask me, considering she’s Muggle–born and all.” 

“That has nothing to do with it,” Quinn warned, in a voice that said, ‘stop–talking–or–I–will–make–you–wish–you–had’. “Anyway, did you say yes? To going with Goyle to the ball, I mean.” 

“I told him I’d think about it.”

“That’s cruel,” said Quinn. “Even for you.”

Louise gave an indifferent shrug. “What can I say? A woman needs to know her options before settling for the first one. I mean, how tragic would it be if _Cori_ asked me after I had already said yes to going with Goyle? I think I would drown myself in the Black Lake.”

Quinn tensed. “You won’t have to worry about that, because he isn’t going to ask you.”

Louise had fallen completely and utterly smitten for her older brother on their very first day at Hogwarts, after he made the mistake of saying more than two words to her. Five years and several failed love potion attempts later, and she still hadn’t given up. It was pathetically revolting.

Louise, however, didn’t think so. She rolled her eyes and tossed her long dark hair over one shoulder. “Merlin, how selfish can you get? You’re my friend, you’re supposed to be my wingwoman.” 

Quinn gaped at her. “Your _wingwoman?_ Are you mad? I’m not helping you seduce my brother!”

“Well, if you think I’m going to double up with Weasley for you and Potter, then you’re terribly mistaken.” She gave a disdainful sniff.

“Potter?” Echoed Eleanor in confusion.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Added Aurelia. 

“Hmm, I don’t know,” said Quinn, in mock contemplation. “Perhaps because it isn’t true, and Louise is just talking out of her fat arse?”

“Oh, spare me,” Louise said, waving a dismissive hand in her direction. “I heard you two in here. _'Why didn’t you answer my letters? I sent thirty–six of them!’_ Just admit it already. We’re your friends.”

Quinn felt anger rise inside of her. “You were listening to our conversation?”

She smiled coyly. “Only a little.”

Quinn heard a throat clear and turned her head to see Draco leaned against the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest. When he saw her glaring at him, his lips twisted into a smirk. 

“Like what you see, Quinnifred?” He asked. Then he paused to give a scornful laugh. “On second thought, perhaps I’m a bit first–rate for you. I knew your standards were low, but Potter?”

If she wasn’t angry enough to hex him the first time, she sure was now. “Sod off, Malfoy. You have less sex appeal than a dead flobberworm. And I would advise you to stop eavesdropping on me as well. I’m starting to grow suspicious.”

“Actually, I’ve come to remind you that we have a meeting in the prefect’s carriage,” he said sharply. “Unless you’d like to do the rest of us a favour and forfeit the position, that is.”

“Don’t bother getting your hopes up,” she told him, her qualms about being prefect all but forgotten in her desire to outdo him. “It’ll be you who forfeits the position in the end.”

He scoffed. “Threatening a fellow prefect on your first day with the badge? Charming.” 

She stood from her seat, making Silvertongue jump down from her lap, then shouldered past Draco into the corridor. Louise shut the door behind them before the cat could follow. 

They began to walk. 

“Just to set the record straight, I’m not with Harry,” she told him, keeping her voice low so that others wouldn’t hear. The last thing she needed was a rumour to spread; she had few admirers as it was.

Draco shot her a quick glance from the corner of his eye, then looked back ahead. “I don’t care who you’re with.” 

He’d done his best to sound aloof, but Quinn didn’t miss the edge of uncertainty in his voice. “Seemed like you did a minute ago,” she said, testing for his reaction.

He whirled, sudden anger brimming in his steel–grey eyes; the colour of clouds gathering just before a storm. “Well, sorry to disappoint, but I don’t,” he snapped. 

They continued in silence then, the only noise accompanying the walk being the patter of rain on the train roof, or the occasional sound of the wheels turning on the track. 

“Merlin knows why Snape chose you as prefect,” Draco said, after a time. “Parkinson has more Slytherin in her little finger than you could ever have.”

“What’s got your wand in a knot? Gutted that you won’t be able to use your patrol shifts to snog in the broom cupboard?” She asked, raising a brow. 

He glared at her, his eyes narrowed into serpentine slits. “At least I’ve snogged someone at all. I’ll bet you get less action than Filch.” He looked her up and down in disgust. “I mean, what is that _dress?_ You look like an old maid in mourning. That afraid to show a bit of skin?”

She scowled. “It’s classy. Not that you would know anything about that, considering you’re going out with Parkinson.”

He ignored that last comment. “Classy? It’s prudish.”

“You can be such an insufferable git sometimes.”

“Better that than a filthy blood traitor.” 

“Yeah, well I’d rather be a _‘filthy blood traitor’_ than a spoiled, pompous brat.”

He smirked down at her. “Might want to get off your high hippogriff, princess.” 

_You walked into this one, Malfoy._ “Why? Still traumatized by your last experience?”

As expected, he had nothing clever to say for that one. Basking in the glory of her latest remark, Quinn watched as his smile curdled and his face turned a shade of red so fierce that even the Gryffindor banners paled in comparison. “Shut up,” he muttered under his breath. “Loathsome cow.”

The comeback was so pathetic that Quinn didn’t even feel the need to answer. Instead, the walk continued in a deepening silence and a growing tension, burning hot and heavy on the air, as thick as smoke.

After what seemed like an eternity, but was probably only about five minutes, they had arrived at the prefect’s carriage. Quinn’s shoulders sagged with relief when she saw Ron and Hermione already sitting at one of the booths inside, him arm–deep in a bowl of potato crisps, and her nose–deep in the pages of a book.

Beyond thrilled to finally be rid of Draco, Quinn flew down the corridor, fast as a Snitch, and plunked down into the empty seat across from Ron.

He grinned, his mouth full of mashed–up food. “Hi— mmph— ’uinn.” 

Quinn turned away, her stomach twisting in nauseated disgust. “Would it kill you to mind your manners for once, Ron? I just finished talking to _Malfoy._ That encounter was revolting enough to last me a week.” 

His smile faded, replaced by a confused scowl. _Did I go too far?_ She wondered.

Quinn was about to ask when the all too familiar smell of apples and hair gel wafted through the air; a heavy smell, sweet and foul, clinging. She felt herself bristle.

“It’s taken,“ she said, just as he began to sit down in the empty seat next to her.

Draco’s steel–grey eyes narrowed. “By who?”

“Anyone that isn’t you,” she told him. 

Ron wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Yeah, bugger off, Malfoy.”

“As if I’d ever follow a command from _you,_ Weaselbee.”

_“Boys,”_ Hermione warned. “That’s enough.”

Draco opened his mouth to say something else then, presumably about Hermione’s non–magical ancestry, but a throat clearing at the end of the corridor interrupted him. 

“If everyone could look here, please,” Quinn heard her brother’s voice say. 

_Right. His speech._ It was a shock she’d even managed to forget. _He only practiced it in front of the mirror half a hundred times._

Ron and Hermione turned in their seats to face the front. Quinn sat up in her own, but she couldn’t see past Ron’s head; he was too tall. 

“For Merlin’s sake,” Draco grumbled. “Switch with me.” He stood, allowing her to slide into his seat, then walked to the other side of the booth to take her old one.

“Thank you,” she whispered, once he had sat down.

“I didn’t do it for you,” he snapped. “Your squirming annoyed me.” 

“Now that I have everyone’s attention, Miriam Shafiq and I are going to share a few words about what it means to be prefect,” Cori was saying. He shuffled the papers in his hand. “Everyone in this room was selected as prefect for a reason, be it your academic achievements, your involvement with school organizations, or your magical prowess. Whether it was one or all of those things that lead to your Head of House choosing you, you all have one thing in common: that you are to be a role model for your peers, from now until you graduate.” 

From her left, Draco leaned down to whisper something in her ear. “This is a waste of sodding time,” he said. His breath made the skin on the back of her neck tingle. “What was the point of that letter if we were just going to have to hear the same rubbish all over again?”

The goosebumps on the back of her neck remained long after he had sat back in his seat. After that, Quinn found herself hyper–aware of the boy sitting next to her, so much so that she could hardly pay attention to her brother’s speech. Even when Cori stepped down from the podium and it was time for the Head Girl, Miriam Shafiq, to take over, she was still lost in thought, staring blankly ahead with one hand lingering on her neck. _It just tickled,_ she told herself, annoyed that she had let it distract her. _You’re making something out of nothing._

... But even then, she couldn’t help stealing a glance at him. 

She would eat her wand before she said it out loud, but Quinn had to admit, Draco _was_ rather handsome. When he was just sitting there, mouth closed and unaware that anyone was looking, it was almost easy to forget how much a rotten prat he was. His skin was pale, as smooth and white and delicate as porcelain, and his eyes were a silvery sort of grey, cold and metallic, like brushed steel. She was in the midst of wondering how she hadn’t noticed how pretty they were before when his lips curled into a contemptuous smile, and suddenly she remembered.

_Right. He’s a prick._

“Enjoying the view, Quinnifred?” He jeered.

Warmth rushed to her cheeks, sudden and unbidden. _So much for subtlety._ Inwardly, she cursed herself for not looking away in time. “Not at all. You _happen_ to have food on your face.”

His hands rushed to his cheeks, wiping. 

“Uh... You got it.” When she turned to face the front, she was startled to see Hermione staring at her from across the table, her brown eyes narrowed in thought. _Merlin’s beard, how obvious_ was _I?_ Even _Ron_ was looking, and he was daft. At this point, Quinn half–expected that fourth year Ravenclaw, Blind Beatrice, to walk in and announce that she’d seen, too. 

Thankfully, her brother started talking again. “If everyone could please take out their badges now,” he said to the room. “They have your house colours on them, and a ‘P’ on the front. You should have received them with a letter from your Head of House.”

Quinn’s gaze shot to Ron. “Did you end up finding yours?”

“Yeah, I did.” He sat up in his seat, reached behind him, and flashed her the pin. “Turns out it was in my back pocket the whole time. Who’d of thought?”

“_You_ should have, considering you put it there,” Hermione snapped.

“If I could have everyone’s eyes and ears back to the front, please,” Cori was saying. A hush fell over the room. “Great. Now that I have your attention, Miriam is going to explain how to put them on.”

Draco leaned down to whisper in her ear again. “As if we need a demonstration on how to wear a badge,” he snapped. “Seriously, how daft do they think we are?”

If Quinn had had her wits about her, then she might have said something about him needing the demonstration, and them not wanting to single him out; but instead, just like last time, she found herself so flustered that she couldn’t even listen to what was being said at the front, much less come up with something clever to say.

_What’s wrong with me?_ She was hot all over, and her heart was pounding like a drum, so loud that she was afraid her friends might hear. _That prude comment must have pissed me off more than I realized._

She stole another glance at him, this time from the corner of her eye. _What does he know, anyway? He’s probably only ever snogged Parkinson, and she hardly counts. She’s as ugly as a troll and twice as stupid._ If he wanted to call her a prude, then so be it. _Better that than a vile slag._

“Quinn? You alright?” She heard Hermione say.

She lifted her head. “Yes. Thank you. Just a bit tired.” She glanced at the seat beside her and was startled to see that it was empty. How long had she been sitting there, fuming to herself?

“We’re to patrol the corridors for a little while now,” Hermione was saying, in that matter–of–fact tone she had whenever she explained something. “The schedules have been separated in piles on a table by the door. Make sure you grab one on the way out.” She held her book to her chest and stood. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.” Quinn rose from her seat and smoothed her dress down with her hands. She was about to ask where Draco went, but then she saw him, standing by the table Hermione had mentioned, a sheet of parchment in his hand.

“He had nothing on his face,” Hermione said suddenly. 

Quinn felt a strange, dropping feeling in her stomach. She turned to see if Ron had heard, but he was nowhere to be found; she had been so focused on Draco that she hadn’t even noticed that one of her friends was missing.

“I told Ron to go on without us,” said Hermione, seemingly having noticed her reaction. “Now, care to explain what happened back there?”

“What are you on about?” Quinn asked. Her heart was racing again, faster than the first time.

_“Draco,”_ said Hermione, louder than Quinn would have liked. “You said he had food on his face. He didn’t.”

“So?” She fought to keep the paranoia out of her voice, and failed. “Why does it matter?”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “It matters because you were staring at him. You _like_ him.”

A warmth was creeping up her cheeks. “That’s foul. _He’s_ foul. Besides, he’s with Parkinson, and I like...” She racked her brain. _A name. Any will do. Think, you blithering idiot._ “... Harry.” 

Quinn had always prided herself in her quick wit, but in all her fifteen years of living, she had never felt more slow than she did at that very moment. _Harry? Harry Potter? That’s the best you could come up with?_

Hermione seemed to believe it, though, if nothing else. “Harry,” she echoed, bringing a palm up to meet her forehead. “Merlin, how did I not notice? It’s so _obvious_ now...”

Quinn glanced at the back of Draco’s blond head. _I don’t even like him. What did I lie for?_

No reasonable answer came to mind.

_I suppose I’m in too deep to have second thoughts now._ Even if she denied it, Hermione would never believe her. “You, uh... Have to promise not to tell anyone. Especially not Harry.”

Hermione grinned. “I promise. I won’t tell anyone.”

Call it intuition or call it crazy, but somehow, Quinn knew that this lie was going to create more problems than it solved.


	3. 𝐈𝐈𝐈.  Cold Hands, Warm Heart

⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𝐐 𝐔 𝐈 𝐍 𝐍

“So, how was it?” Asked Hermione as they began the trek to the carriages. 

“Let’s see…” Quinn paused in mock consideration. “I just spent my last few hours of schoolless freedom patrolling a train of unruly first years with my worst enemy. How do you _think_ it was?” 

“Quite terrible, I would imagine,” said Hermione, with just a hint of a smile.

“I’m inclined to agree, but I haven’t killed myself _yet,_ so I suppose it could be worse.”

They both laughed. In the gloom of the night, it seemed an odd sound; out of place. 

By the time they reached the stagecoaches, half were full. Harry and Ron stood alone in the moving crowd, glancing around in what looked like worried confusion. 

Hermione had just begun to ask where Crookshanks was when Ron’s little sister— whose name Quinn seemed to have forgotten, but was on the tip of her tongue— drew up beside them, the squirming orange beast in tow.

“Thanks,” said Hermione as she took him into her arms. Then, without missing a beat, she went on to say, “we should try to get a carriage together now, before they all fill up…” 

“I haven’t got Pig yet!” Ron protested, but his sister and Hermione were already heading off toward the nearest unoccupied coach, and Quinn was inclined to follow. 

As she waited for them to climb into the carriage, she stole one last glance at the outside world and instantly regretted it: further up the road, Louise was chatting away happily with Pansy Parkinson and her gang of girls, Eleanor and Aurelia not far behind.

Quinn was already angry with Louise for eavesdropping on her and Harry’s conversation, but seeing her speak to Pansy felt like a betrayal of its own. Who was she to accuse _her_ of being a bad friend for not wanting to set her up with Cori, when she so eagerly talked to the girls who had made the last five years of her life a torment?

_If that lousy cow thinks I’ll ever be her wing woman now, she’s wrong._ Quinn turned her nose up in the air and followed Ron’s sister into the carriage.

“Sit on that side,” said Hermione, just as Quinn began to settle into the empty seat next to her. 

She looked her over in bewilderment. “Why?”

“Because… Well… Can Ginny know?” 

_Ginny, that’s her name._ “Know what?” 

“About Harry, of course,” said Hermione. Then she clapped a hand over her mouth, as though she could shove the words back inside. 

“I suppose it’s too late to say no now,” said Quinn. 

“You’re with Harry?” Asked Ginny. The look of disappointment that passed over her face lasted no more than a second, but Quinn did not miss it.

“She isn’t yet, but she wants to be,” clarified Hermione, matter–of–factly.

Before Quinn could ask Ginny not to tell anyone, a girl with a head of straggly blonde hair so long it fell to her waist clambered into the coach, clutching a worn–looking copy of the Quibbler to her chest. _Loony Lovegood,_ thought Quinn in recognition. _Aurelia’s cousin._ The girl was a complete nutter according to everyone who knew her, and her appearance did nothing to contend the claims: a pair of Dirigible plums hung from both her earlobes, and looped around her neck was a chain of butterbeer corks, stained where they had faced the inside of the bottle. 

Luna plunked down in the empty seat next to Ginny, opposite Quinn. When their eyes met, she sat, staring, her face strangely void of expression, for so long Quinn started to feel uneasy. 

“You’re friends with Aurelia,” she said dreamily, after a time. “I don’t know your name.” 

“Quinn,” she told her, extending a hand. “Quinn Avery.” 

Luna took her hand, but instead of shaking it, she gave it a long squeeze. “Cold,” she observed.

Quinn drew her hand away, feeling utterly perturbed. 

“They say cold hands often conceal a warm heart,” Luna went on, apparently just as oblivious to social cues as she was of fashion.

Quinn shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “Yes, well, I would prefer not to test that theory today. I quite like my heart in my chest.”

Luna burst into a laugh so loud it made Crookshanks hiss. _“Your… Heart… In… Your… Chest!”_ She shrieked, holding her sides. 

“... Where else would it be?” 

The question only made Luna laugh all the harder. 

“It isn’t true, anyway,” said Hermione haughtily. “It’s a myth, nothing more. Scientists have done several studies debunking it. They found that holding a cup of hot coffee made people—”

“Did everyone see that Grubbly–Plank woman?” Asked Ginny as Harry and Ron climbed into the coach, interrupting an impending argument between Hermione and Luna. “What’s she doing back here? Hagrid can’t have left, can he?”

“I’ll be quite glad if he has,” said Luna, who was wiping tears of mirth from her eyes. “He isn’t a very good teacher, is he?”

_“Yes, he is!”_ Quinn heard herself say, at the same time as Harry, Ron, and Ginny. 

“Erm… Yes,” added Hermione, after an awkward silence had passed. “He’s very good.” 

“Well, we think he’s a bit of a joke in Ravenclaw,” said Luna. 

“You’ve got a rubbish sense of humour, then,” snapped Ron. 

She just blinked at him. 

Aurelia had warned her that her cousin was a _few_ sandwiches short of a picnic, but Quinn saw now that that was wrong. _Try the whole goddamn basket._

Beneath them, the wheels of the carriage creaked into motion. 

“Not there,” said Hermione, just as Ron began to sit down in the empty seat next to Quinn. 

He scowled at her. “It’s a five minute carriage ride. Who _cares_ where we sit?”

“Silvertongue,” Hermione told him, all businesslike. “He’s allergic to Pigwidgeon.”

Quinn winced at the stupidity of the lie. _Note to self: Speak to Hermione about Harry._ It was getting out of hand already, just as she had suspected it would. 

Begrudgingly, Ron scooted down the bench. “I don’t see why Hedwig should be any different,” he was grumbling as Harry sat down between them. 

“Hedwig is in a cage,” Hermione pointed out. “Besides, they have different genetics, wouldn’t you believe it? Snowy owls usually reside in the arctic, whereas a miniature scops owl like yours—”

At this point, Quinn had stopped listening. She twisted in her seat to face the front window of the carriage and rubbed the fog from the glass with an open hand. 

Ahead of them, the stagecoaches were jolting along in a convoy up the road, headed for Hogwarts. She knew that Louise, Eleanor, and Aurelia were in the one before theirs with Pansy Parkinson and the rest of her vapid friends, but the windows of their carriage were all hazy from the cold, and Quinn couldn’t see inside apart from the shadowy silhouettes of their heads.

“So… Are you excited?” Asked Harry. 

Quinn sank back into her seat, abandoning the window. “For?” 

“To be back,” he told her. “At Hogwarts, I mean.” 

“Oh, yes,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Prefect duties with Malfoy, O.W.L.s at the end of the year, trying out for the Quidditch team…”

“You’re trying out for the Quidditch team?” He asked, interrupting her.

“I don’t have much of a choice,” she admitted sourly. “Father dearest expects it, seeing as both my beloved siblings have made the team.” 

Harry smiled. “Well, I think you should. I mean, it’s worth a shot, and you might like it.”

Considering Draco was on the team, Quinn doubted that very much. “I’m sure you’re looking forward to the season starting again. Hogwarts’ best Seeker, back on the pitch; I can see you holding the Cup already.” 

Harry gave a nervous laugh. “I mean, it’s still quite a bit away…” 

“Only two months, and practices start in September.” 

He scratched the back of his neck. “I suppose you’re right.” 

An awkward silence followed. 

“I really am sorry, by the way,” he told her, after a time. “About the letter thing, I mean.” 

Quinn smiled. “All is forgiven. However, I _would_ like a recap of what you wrote me. Thirty–six is quite the number; Hedwig must be exhausted.” 

He laughed. “Yes, well… It’s a rather long story.”

“Start talking, then, and I’ll try not to fall asleep.” 

Harry’s smile faded. “Your father… Where did you say he works again?”

“He’s a bureaucrat for the Ministry and a member of the Wizengamot,” she told him. 

“Hang on,” said Harry, his bright green eyes narrowing in realization. “The Wizengamot… He would have been at my hearing, then, I suppose?” 

“I would hope so, lest he is stripped of office for his absence.” She eyed him carefully. “There _is_ a reason for you asking, I suspect, aside from innocent curiosity regarding my personal life.” 

Harry looked startled.

“Something the matter?” She asked, raising a brow.

“Oh, no, not at all,” he said quickly. Too quickly. “Everything’s great. Sorry.”

Quinn decided to change the subject. “So, did you write me about anything else, or were _all_ thirty–six of those letters about my father?” She teased. “He _is_ married, you know.” 

“No, I did,” said Harry. “Write you, I mean. About something else.” He paused. “Sorry, I should have asked earlier, on the train… How was your summer holiday?” 

“Not much better than yours, I would imagine,” she said tiredly. 

His lips quirked up into a half–smile. “I don’t know about that. The Dursleys are quite horrible.” 

_You do not know Alastair Avery, then,_ thought Quinn, but she didn’t dare speak ill of her father out loud. 

“I’ll take your word for it,” she said instead, just as the stagecoach came to a lurching halt.

Quinn was the first to emerge into the courtyard, lugging her school trunk and Silvertongue’s crate behind her. Further up the road, Louise stepped down from her own carriage, arm in arm with Pansy. When the girls caught sight of Quinn staring, they broke out in unsuppressed laughter, after which Pansy leaned down to whisper something in her ear. The sight of it tied Quinn’s stomach in knots, so tight it hurt. 

“Are you alright?” Asked Hermione, who had apparently witnessed the girls’ little display of hatred.

Quinn flashed a smile to hide her pain. “Actually, no. I’m half left.” 

Rolling her eyes at the corniness of the joke, Hermione took hold of her wrist and together they joined the crowd hurrying up the stone steps into the castle.

As much as Quinn hated school for all the work and responsibility it entailed, there was, undeniably, something she missed about it, and something that felt at peace within her whenever she came back. Whether it was being reunited with her friends, being able to use magic again, or the building itself, she could not say; all she knew was that there was no stopping the smile that twitched its way onto her lips when they entered the Great Hall, or the warmth that ran through her at the mere sight of the candles floating overhead. It was more home–like than home itself. 

“See you later,” said Hermione as she turned for the Gryffindor table. Ginny and Ron waved, but Luna was already gone; she must have left some time ago, without Quinn noticing. 

She shot a painfully awkward smile at Harry before parting for the Slytherin table.

“Wait,” he called behind her.

Quinn turned around.

“I was wondering if you’d like to practice flying sometime this week,” he was saying. “Tuesday at five, maybe… I mean, only if _you_ want to, that is. If there’s a better day for you…”

She interrupted him. “Tuesday at five it is. See you on the pitch, Harry.” 

The fifth year prefects were told to sit at the end of their House tables to help welcome newcomers, so Quinn did just that. Shortly after, Draco plunked down onto the seat across from her with a particularly smug–looking Pansy Parkinson hanging off his arm, thankfully unaccompanied by Louise and the others. 

“Enjoy the carriage ride?” He sneered.

She gave a tired sigh. “I did, actually, though you’re not asking because you care to hear my answer, I would imagine.”

“You _imagine_ correctly,” he spat. Then he paused. “Looks like you’re getting cozy with Potter. Thought that rumour wasn’t true?” 

To his left, Pansy made a noise that sounded closer to a pig being gelded than a laugh. “You’re going out with Potter?” She shrieked, in disbelief. _“Scarhead?”_

Quinn regarded her with lazy disdain. “I believe that’s what Malfoy just said. How observant of you. Now, if you’re done parroting—”

Somewhere behind them, the doors of the Great Hall came groaning open. Quinn turned her head to see Professor McGonagall step inside, trailed by a line of wide–eyed first years. Some stared up at the candles in silent wonderment, while others pointed frantically at the ghosts drifting through the air overhead, giving little screams when they swooped particularly low. 

“Bunch of milksops,” Draco muttered under his breath.

Quinn gave him a pointed look. “Interesting. I seem to recall _you_ being afraid of the Bloody Baron in first year.” 

“I wasn’t afraid,” he snapped. “The blustering oaf smells.”

The timing couldn’t have been more perfect: as if on cue, the Bloody Baron floated down into the seat next to him, turning Draco’s face a shade so pale it was hard to say which one of them was the ghost.

“You were saying?” Asked Quinn, raising a brow.

He regained enough of his composure to glare at her. 

In front of the staff table, Professor McGonagall had set down the stool and hat. There was a brief silence as the first years lined up to be sorted, then the rip on the hat’s brim opened, and it burst into song: _“In times of old when I was new, and Hogwarts barely started, the founders of our noble school thought never to be parted…”_

“It’s the same rubbish every year,” Draco sneered, in a whisper. “The thing’s tone–deaf.” 

Quinn was about to tell him that she’d like to see _him_ get up there and give it a try when the Sorting Hat’s tune changed: _“Oh, know the perils, read the signs, the warning history shows, for our Hogwarts is in danger from external, deadly foes. We must unite inside her or we’ll crumble from within; I have told you, I have warned you… Let the Sorting now begin.”_

“That put a bad taste in my mouth,” said Pansy, shivering. 

Quinn smirked. “Maybe you should brush your teeth then.”

Pansy opened her mouth to give some sort of snide response, but one look from Professor McGonagall had her clamping it shut. 

As the whispering that had swept over the Hall came to an end, the Sorting Ceremony began, and one by one the first years began to join them at the House tables. For a time, Quinn watched with not the faintest interest, and soon enough her mind was going back to the Sorting Hat’s song. 

_Hogwarts is in danger from external, deadly foes,_ it had sung. She thought back to Harry’s warning on the train, and could not help but wonder if there was some truth in it, despite her father telling her that the return of He–Who–Must–Not–Be–Named was nothing but hogwash. 

After three Hufflepuffs, two Gryffindors, and one Ravenclaw, the Sorting Hat finally bellowed, _“SLYTHERIN!”_

Quinn clapped with the rest of Slytherin House as the boy hopped down from the stool and joined them at the table, grinning from ear to ear. Sometime after, “Gamp, Sophia” was sorted into Slytherin as well, a small girl with a thousand freckles speckling her face and light red hair gathered up in pigtails. 

The boy’s grin turned to a scowl as she sat. “_You?_ Slytherin? I can’t believe it.” 

Disheartened, little Sophia’s gaze fell to her lap.

Some instinct made Quinn smile at her. “Don’t listen to him,” she heard herself say. “We’re glad to have you in Slytherin House, aren’t we?” She turned her gaze on Draco, who was currently pretending he hadn’t heard her.

“Thank you,” said Sophia anyway, with a tiny sniffle. 

A strange relief passed through her when she saw that the girl was all right. “There’s no need to thank me. I’m Quinn Avery, prefect. You can come to me whenever that boy bothers you, okay?” 

“Okay,” said Sophia, her sadness quelled. She looked up at her then, and Quinn saw that her eyes were protuberant and hazel, framed by a row of curling lashes. “You’re really pretty, by the way.” 

The compliment came so unexpectedly that Quinn had to do a double–take to ensure she wasn’t laughing at her. 

She wasn’t, but Pansy did in her place. “Now that’s just taking the piss,” she said between derisive snorts. “She’s the ugliest girl here!”

Quinn quirked a brow. “Odd. I wasn’t aware that I was transfigured into a mirror.” 

At last, “Zeller, Rose” was sorted into Hufflepuff, and with that the Sorting Ceremony was over and the start–of–term feast was on. With a wave of Dumbledore’s wand, food appeared on the tables before them, plates stacked high of vegetables, pastries, meats, and desserts. Quinn didn’t wait to tuck in; she hadn’t eaten breakfast that morning and had hardly anything on the train either, so she was positively starving. 

She had eaten six chicken drumsticks, three scones, half a custard tart, and was just setting to work on some pudding when Dumbledore began his usual opening day speech: “First years ought to know that the forest in the grounds is out of bounds to students — and a few of our older students ought to know by now too…” 

That wouldn’t stop Quinn. The Forbidden Forest was the only decent place to get any unicornwatching done at school; they hardly came outside of it.

He was just in the midst of explaining when tryouts for the House Quidditch teams would take place when a woman sitting up at the staff table gave a sharp _“eh hem”,_ interrupting him. 

Quinn did not have to look twice to know who it was: Dolores Umbridge.

She was a coworker of her father’s, and, quite possibly, one of the most intolerable people Quinn had ever had the displeasure of meeting, aside from Draco. 

Once Dumbledore had gone quiet and sat down, she stood from her seat, fluffed out the hideous pink cardigan she was wearing, and strode to the centre of the raised platform, her heels clicking with every step. 

“That outfit is ghastly,” murmured Pansy in disgust. 

Quinn never thought she’d see the day, but for once, she was inclined to agree with her. _Square toes, really? I thought that trend died in the 1800s._ It was a fashion faux pas. 

“Thank you, Headmaster, for those kind words of welcome,” Umbridge was saying in that awful, breathy voice she had. “It is lovely to be back at Hogwarts, I must say! And to see such happy little faces looking back at me, my, my!”

“Happy faces? Where?” Quinn glanced around the Hall with mock theatrics, earning quiet giggles from a few first years.

“Ha, ha,” said Draco, without a whisper of amusement in his voice. “Real mature.” 

She gave a lazy smirk. “Yes, because you’re the _soul_ of maturity, Mr. Wait–Until–My–Father–Hears–About–This.”

“Sod off.” 

Up on the stage, Umbridge was still droning on, as sickeningly sweet as ever. “I am very much looking forward to getting to know you all, and I’m sure we’ll be very good friends! The Ministry of Magic has always considered the education of young witches and wizards to be of vital importance. The rare gifts with which you were born may come to nothing if not nurtured and honed by careful…”

Quinn glared down at her half–eaten plate of treacle pudding. It was no good, Umbridge being at Hogwarts. Her mother had already threatened to ground her for the entirety of the next summer holiday if another letter was sent home from school, and she’d thought she had it covered, but now, with her father’s coworker lurking about, she was going to be under _much_ more scrutiny. 

_This has got to be the worst year yet,_ she thought bitterly as she shoved a spoonful of pudding into her mouth. Even the taste of that didn’t make her feel any better.

It was only when Dumbledore had begun speaking again that Quinn went back to paying attention. “Quidditch tryouts will take place this week, on a different day for each House,” he explained. “The date and time will be posted in the common room of your dormitories. Auditions for the Frog Choir and the Hogwarts orchestra will be this week as well.”

At last it was time to sing the school song. Usually Quinn wouldn’t sing at all, but this year she did (albeit begrudgingly), feeling that she had to set an example for Sophia and the rest of the newcomers. _“Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts, teach us something please…”_

It came as no surprise to her when Draco didn’t bother singing, nor when he looked around in open disgust at those who did. When he set those steel–grey eyes of his on her, Quinn only sang all the louder, her voice half a scream. _“OUR HEADS COULD DO WITH FILLING WITH SOME INTERESTING STUFF, FOR NOW THEY’RE BARE AND FULL OF AIR, DEAD FLIES AND BITS OF FLUFF!”_

The look of mingled horror and revulsion that passed across his face was worth more than a thousand Gold–Galleons. 

After the singing had come to an end and Dumbledore had dismissed the school from the Great Hall, Quinn stood. Across from her, Draco was starting to rise as well, but Pansy grabbed his sleeve and yanked him back down into his seat before he could even take a step.

“Where are _you_ off to so fast?” She demanded, her voice reedy and petulant. 

“I’ll meet you in the common room,” he told her as he pulled himself free. “Quinnifred and I have been tasked with showing the titchy little runts where to go.”

_“Pansy, over here!”_ A voice called behind them. 

_ Louise._ Quinn took special care not to look that direction after that.

Pansy stood from her seat, straightened her robes, and with one last laughable attempt of a glare, she was gone. It was just Quinn, Draco, and the Slytherin first years then, all wide eyes and bated breath.

She put on the warmest smile she could muster. “Right, so, I’m Quinn, and this is Draco. We’re very glad to have you in Slytherin House, I’m sure you’re all—”

“Merlin’s beard,” he snapped, interrupting her. “Cori said we had to show them where to go, not give a sermon.” 

Laughter rang out among them then; a high, all–too familiar sound that painfully reminded her of her own first day at Hogwarts. “I’m sure you’re all exhausted, so best we get going,” she said with the last of her dignity.

As they made their way into the Entrance Hall, Quinn glimpsed Harry walking alone in the moving crowd, head down. She didn’t have to wonder why. There was whispering all around him, and pointing fingers too; hushed conversations about the recent reports in the Daily Prophet.

“From famous to infamous,” said Draco, smiling gleefully as he opened a door at the end of the hall. Quinn cast Harry one last longing look before disappearing down the stone steps that led to the dungeons. 

Together, she and Draco wove their way through darkened corridors dim–lit with torches. They never spoke so much as a word of acknowledgment to each other; in fact, the only sound accompanying the walk was the first years’ whispers behind them, and somewhere, water dripping, drop by drop. 

Around them, the walls seemed to press closer than ever, especially after their descent into the dungeons had deepened. More than once they brushed shoulders, with each time resulting in a fiery exchange of glares and “watch where you’re going”s. Quinn was so angry that by the time they reached the bare, damp stretch of stone wall that led to the common room, her heart was beating frantically in her chest, so quick and fluttery that it made her dizzy. 

“There isn’t anything there,” protested a first year behind them. 

_For now._ Quinn took a deep breath to slow the wild beating of her heart, then cleared her throat. “Snakeskin,” she said, and with that, a door concealed in the wall slid open, and the dim green light of the common room came flooding into the corridor.

Behind her, a few first years let out a series of “oohs” and “ahhs”, while others pushed past to get a closer look. “You ought to know that the passcode changes every few weeks,” she told them as they went inside. “Girls’ dormitories are to the right; boys’ to the left.” She pointed at a set of twin staircases toward the back of the room, both carpeted in green velvet edged with a silver baroque pattern. 

Off the children went, scanning the room in wide–eyed wonder. Some paused at the windows to look out, but Quinn knew that there was nothing to see; the Slytherin dormitories were underwater, so the view was just a bleak, green–tinted nothingness.

Draco seemed to take their sudden privacy as an invitation to speak to her. “So, he did he tell you about ‘it’ yet?” He asked, before looking around to ensure that no one had heard.

Quinn regarded him oddly. “You’ll have to be more specific than that. I’m _vastly_ talented, I know, but I’m no Legilimens.” 

The answer did not amuse him. “Your father, of course,” he said, sounding annoyed that he even had to clarify.

Behind them, Quinn heard the scrape of stone on stone. When she turned around, the wall was sliding open again, revealing Pansy, Louise, Eleanor, and Aurelia standing on the other side, flanked by Milicent Bulstrode and Daphne Greengrass. 

“So, Avery, how much did Daddy pay Snape to make _you_ prefect?” Asked Pansy with a smirk. “Daphne thinks it was a hundred Galleons, but _I_ think less. Things clearly must have gone bust for a man as proud as Alastair Avery to have picked up a job at the Ministry. From riches to rags…” That brought laughter from the girls behind her, but it was Louise, Eleanor, and Aurelia’s that cut most; sharp and cold, like knives in Quinn’s back.

Suddenly, absurdly, she felt tears well behind her eyes. Quinn turned away from them and bolted for the girls’ staircase before they could see her cry. 

_They aren’t worth the tears,_ she told herself as she raced up the steps. They were nothing but bimbos and bullies, the lot of them, without a sliver of integrity between them.

… Even so, they had been her friends for the better part of the last five years, and the only ones she had in her own House. Quinn could not help looking over her shoulder, just one last time before she disappeared inside her dorm room. 

It wasn’t Louise’s eyes she met, though, nor Eleanor’s _or_ Aurelia’s; it was Draco’s, as cold and grey as ever, though this time there was something else in them. 

If she hadn’t known better, Quinn might have thought he was concerned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter! Don’t be afraid to share your thoughts; how do you like Quinn so far?


	4. 𝐈𝐕.  Unspoken Threats

⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𝐐 𝐔 𝐈 𝐍 𝐍

𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐍𝐍 was early to bed and early to rise, hoping to avoid another verbal altercation with her roommates. To her relief, it worked; by the time she’d finished eating her breakfast, Pansy, Louise, Eleanor, and Aurelia were only just entering the Great Hall, eyes heavy–lidded and mouths agape with yawns.

The first class of the day was one that she had come to loathe, but was, of course, required to graduate: double History of Magic with Professor Binns. 

If boredom was fatal, Quinn was sure she would have died in that class. The only things keeping her eyes open were the double shot of espresso she had that morning and a tournament of hangman with Harry and Ron, who she had chosen to sit with today.

Not that she had many options at the moment. 

She was just in the midst of guessing the letter ‘b’ when she felt a finger jab her arm, hard. “I know what you’re doing, and I don’t appreciate it,” said Hermione, her voice an angry whisper.

“I wasn’t aware playing hangman was against the rules,” said Quinn, feigning innocence. 

“I’m not talking about you playing hangman,” Hermione flared. “I’m talking about you charming my quill to make _my_ notes appear on _your_ paper!” 

Ron gave a snort of laughter. “Clever. I didn’t even think of that.” 

“It’s not clever,” said Hermione, whose cheeks were turning pink. “It’s _cheating!_ If you want to do well in this class, then you’ll have to pay attention yourself!”

“Oh, but that’s where you’re mistaken: I _am_ paying attention,” said Quinn. “To this game of hangman, and later, your notes.” 

That elicited a half–suppressed smile from Harry and a laugh from Ron, but Hermione wasn’t quite so amused; glaring, she turned away from them and resumed listening to Binns’ lecture, this time with a fresh quill. 

Quinn sighed. _Note to self: be more subtle next time._ She had been charming Eleanor’s quill to swindle her way out of note–taking since her first day at Hogwarts, but she supposed Hermione was in a different league, being that she achieved top marks in her classes and all. 

_Oh well,_ thought Quinn, unperturbed. _I’ll just have to come up with another plan._ She always did. 

The bell signalling the end of class rang just as she was starting to fall asleep, and then it was time to head to the Great Hall for lunch. Hermione was still droning on about what happened as the four of them wove their way through the corridors: “... If you want to, we can always study together. Oh, it would be great fun, wouldn’t it? We could have snacks…” 

“Hello, Harry!” Called a soft voice, interrupting Hermione’s rambling. 

A girl with long, shiny black hair drew up in front of them then, clad in the blue robes of Ravenclaw House and clutching a stack of books to her chest. She was pretty, Quinn realized. 

Harry seemed to have realized it too, for his face was now an alarming shade of red. “Hi. Did you… Er… Have a good summer?” 

The girl’s lip twitched. “Oh, it was alright, you know… Considering...” 

Hermione tugged at the sleeve of Quinn’s robe. “That’s Cho Chang,” she whispered, in a rush. “Harry asked her to the Yule Ball last year.” 

“Oh… Cool,” said Quinn, in a half–assed attempt at seeming interested.

“No, _not_ cool,” said Hermione. “Just look how red he is! I’ll bet he still fancies her. You should really consider saying something about how you feel, and soon.” 

_She isn’t wrong,_ thought Quinn in defeat. _He’s got it bad._ If Harry ogled the girl any harder, there’d be drool running down his chin. “… Yeah, I’ll tell him… Don’t worry,” she assured her friend.

Internally, she wanted to hit herself over the head for being so slow. _You blithering idiot! That was as good a time as any to tell Hermione the truth!_

If only she could figure out what the truth was. 

Sure, Quinn wasn’t _attracted_ to Harry per se, but that was only a minor complication in the grand scheme of things; beauty _was_ only skin deep, after all. What was more important was that she had fun with him; he made her laugh. 

… Plus, if she had to admit, seeing him look at Cho Chang like that _was_ making her feel a little jealous. 

Quinn had entertained the idea of dating Harry for no more than a few minutes when Cho turned to leave. “Be seeing you,” she said over her shoulder before heading off to join a group of girls further up the hall, a spring in each step. Harry watched her leave, grinning like a fool.

After that they continued on their way. Hermione stared at Quinn in equal parts pity and fascination, while Ron loudly teased Harry about his latest interaction: “... She’s totally into you, mate. That’s twice now she’s come up to you and it’s only the first week…” 

Quinn came to an abrupt stop in the entrance of the Great Hall. 

At the Slytherin table, Cori was sitting with Draco, Pansy, and the rest of their vapid friends, talking and laughing like he was one of them. On the other side of him sat Louise, who was staring up at him so intensely that you’d have thought he was God’s gift to wizardkind. The sight of it made Quinn nauseous. 

She decided that she did not feel like eating in the Great Hall today after all.

Head high, Quinn glided over to the table, grabbed an apple and a wrap, shoved them into her rucksack, and left the Great Hall without so much as looking in her brother’s direction. 

Her stomach felt as though there were an Occamy inside it in place of guts, twining its long, serpentine body round and round. _First my friends betray me, and now my own brother,_ she thought dully. Was there anyone she could trust?

There were footsteps behind her. Quinn spun and saw Harry, breathless, clutching a sandwich in one hand and a bottle of pumpkin juice in the other. “Where are you off to?” He asked.

“Anywhere but the Great Hall,” she told him.

“Mind if I join you?” 

A smile crept its way onto her face. “Not at all.”

Quinn’s wandering led them outside the castle and toward the Forbidden Forest. “... Where are we going, exactly…?” Said Harry behind her, uncertain. 

“The Forbidden Forest, it would seem,” she told him as she passed the tree line. 

“I can see that,” said Harry, pushing a branch out of the way to follow her. “What for?”

“Unicornwatching.” 

“Unicornwatching,” he echoed, incredulous. “Are you serious?”

She smirked. “No. I’ve actually come out here to bury a body. You figured me out.”

Harry laughed, and soon she was laughing too. 

They drew up at the clearing. Everything was just as it had been the year before: the tall grass swaying in the afternoon breeze, the patches of wolfsbane flowers and lilac bushes, the rounded, mossy boulder that she would always sit on… 

The only thing missing was the unicorns. 

“So… Do you just wait?” Asked Harry as they traipsed their way through the grass. 

She nodded. “It’s certainly not an activity for the impatient.” 

“How long does it take for one to show up?” 

She shrugged. “Sometimes they don’t at all.”

“Isn’t that… Well… A waste of time?” Said Harry with a downward twist of his mouth. 

“Not to me, though I suppose there’s many people who would not see eye to eye.” Quinn pulled herself up onto the boulder. The stone was warm beneath her hands from the sun. 

Beside her, Harry was hoisting himself up as well. She swung her rucksack down from her shoulders and reached inside, then drew out her wrap and began to eat. Chicken and bacon; not her favourite. 

Next to her, Harry was sitting quietly with his knees drawn to his chest, looking out at the clearing and admiring the view… Which _was_ rather nice, come to think of it. 

The clearing faced a cliff edge overlooking the Great Lake, beneath the surface of which Quinn could see the faint, glowing silhouette of the giant squid. Overhead, there was a soft humming sound, almost a laugh. She looked up, raising a hand to shade her eyes from the sun, and watched as a score of Flitterby moths flew by, sprinkling orange dust with each flap of their wings. She smiled and reached up with her free hand to catch some. The dust sat in a weightless heap in her palm, twinkling like ground diamonds. 

Quinn sucked in a breath, made a wish, and blew it off. Childishly, she’d wished for a hero; someone to solve all her problems, like the wizard in Beedle the Bard’s tale _The Wizard and the Hopping Pot._

In a swirling cloud, the dust blew off her palm and rained down on the grass below, a hundred tiny fallen orange stars. By the time she’d lifted her head to watch the Flitterbys again, they were gone, and the fantasy had vanished with them. 

_A hero… If only it were that simple._

“Are you alright?” Harry blurted after a silence.

Quinn quirked a brow. “Have I given you a reason to think I’m not?”

“No, it’s just… Usually you sit with your friends in class, and at lunch, but today you haven’t done either.” His green eyes widened. “Not that I mind, of course— you sitting with Ron, Hermione, and I, I mean— it’s just… I wanted to make sure that you’re okay, is all.” His face was the reddest she had ever seen it. 

Quinn made herself smile. “I’m touched by your concern, but there is nothing to worry about; I am quite alright.”

“You don’t have to do that,” said Harry. 

“Do what?”

“Pretend everything’s fine when it’s not,” he told her. “I asked because I care and want to hear the answer, not because I feel obligated to or anything.” 

“Let’s just say my friends have had a… Change of loyalty,” she said carefully.

Harry nodded, seeming to understand. “Well, you always have us. Not at lunch, I suppose, but… Everywhere else.” He smiled, and Quinn couldn’t help but smile too. 

“We should head back inside now.” She brushed the remnants of the Flitterby powder off on her robes, stood, and hopped down from the rock, then reached inside her rucksack and groped blindly for the apple. 

Once she found it, cold against her palm, Quinn took it out and tossed it into the grass. She paused to watch as it rolled to a stop further down the clearing.

“Defence Against the Dark Arts with Umbridge next?” Asked Harry as they began the trek back to Hogwarts. She nodded. “Great. That’s me too.”

The warning bell rang just as they stepped inside the castle, and after that they had to run. On their way they bumped into Cori, who glared and called after her as they passed, _“remember, Quidditch tryouts are on Wednesday!”_

She pretended she hadn’t heard.

“He didn’t look too happy to see me with you,” said Harry as they rounded the corner.

_Let him be unhappy, the backstabbing git,_ she thought venomously. Instead, what came out was, “he just saw his precious little sister running late for class with a _boy;_ a _Gryffindor_ boy, no less. He’s probably plotting your murder as we speak.” 

The real bell rang just as they entered the classroom. 

Quinn felt her heartbeat quicken as her classmates turned in their seats to stare. It was then that she realized how their entrance must look to an outsider: almost late, hair a mess, faces flushed from running… 

Everyone else seemed to realize as well, for as she and Harry awkwardly maneuvered their way through the maze of desks in search of somewhere to sit, the room erupted into quiet giggles, and whispers about what “activities” the pair had been up to at lunch. 

All that, however, was shadowed by Umbridge’s stare; cold and calculated, like a cobra watching its prey, scanning for weaknesses. “You were nearly late,” she announced, in a voice irritatingly snippy. 

“Key word: nearly,” said Quinn as she plunked down into the empty seat next to Hermione, dropping her rucksack at her feet. It fell to the floor with an audible _clunk._

On the other side of Hermione, Harry sat next to Ron, jaw clenched and eyes downcast. For now, it seemed, he had decided to hold his tongue. Quinn didn’t have that sort of control; for her, not saying what she was thinking out loud was an accomplishment, and unfortunately one that she did not have often.

“Careful with your tone, Miss Avery,” said Professor Umbridge.

She quirked a brow. “Why? Do my observations offend you? You should hear the ones I keep to myself, then.” 

Umbridge’s icy gaze turned on Ron, who had begun to laugh quietly. He covered his mouth with a freckly hand and coughed.

“Tardiness will _not_ be tolerated in this classroom,” said Umbridge, who was now striding up and down the aisles between the desks. “I want you all to arrive five minutes _early_ to class from now on, as to practice good punctuality. Is that understood?” She paused, as if waiting to hear an answer. “Tut, tut. That will not do… It simply will _not_ do! I should like you, please, to answer my question: is the new rule regarding punctuality understood?”

“Yes,” said the class in unison, their voices one long, monotonous drawl.

Out of spite, Quinn kept her mouth shut and scratched her brow with her middle finger when Umbridge looked her way. 

If the old hag noticed the gesture, she didn’t say anything about it. “Good, I’m glad to hear it!” She went on, a gargantuan smile on her face. “There will be dire consequences if the rule is not followed; you have Miss Avery to thank for that.”

Two dozen heads turned to glare at her. _Someday, my loud mouth is going to get me punched,_ thought Quinn with dull regret. She never could quite figure out when to stop. 

“Now that that’s settled…” Continued Umbridge. “Wands away and quills out, please.” 

Quinn exchanged a confused scowl with Hermione before bending down to shove her wand back inside her rucksack. She replaced it on her desk with her quill, ink, and parchment, then sank back in her seat and tried not to fall asleep as Umbridge began prattling on about the course aims. 

“... There will be no need to talk,” she finished as she settled herself into the chair behind the teacher’s desk. 

Quinn looked around, blinking; she had spaced out too long and missed the instructions. 

Everyone had their textbooks out now, heads bent to read. She pulled out her own and leaned close to Hermione. “Do you know which page we’re supposed to read?” She asked, in a whisper. “I was trying not to fall asleep when she told us and seem to have missed it.”

Hermione didn’t answer. 

“Are you still upset about what happened earlier?” Quinn asked. “I thought…” 

That was when she realized Hermione’s book wasn’t even open; her hand was in the air and she was staring at Professor Umbridge, who was pretending not to notice her. 

Minutes passed just like that: Hermione staring at Umbridge, and Umbridge staring just about everywhere else. Quinn wasn’t the only one captivated by the situation: on the other side of Hermione, Harry and Ron were watching too, and so was just about everyone else in the class for that matter.

Quinn’s patience was wearing thin. She covered her mouth with a fist and gave a loud cough, causing Umbridge’s head to snap their direction. 

A smile spread across her face, as though she were only just now realizing that Hermione’s hand was up. “Did you want to ask something about the chapter, dear?”

“Not about the chapter, no,” said Hermione.

“Well, we’re reading just now. If you have other queries we can deal with them at the end of class.”

“I’ve got a query about your course aims,” Hermione clarified.

That seemed to surprise Umbridge, whose eyes had gone as wide as watery saucers. “And your name is…?”

“Hermione Granger.”

She gave a sickeningly sweet smile. “Well, Miss Granger, I think the course aims are perfectly clear if you read them through carefully.” 

“Well, I don’t,” said Hermione in blunt disagreement. “There’s nothing written up there about _using_ defensive spells.”

Umbridge gave a high, tittering sort of laugh that only served to make the pug nose she had look all the worse. “Using defensive spells?” She echoed, as though she could hardly believe what she was hearing. “Why, I can’t imagine a situation arising in my classroom that would require you to _use_ a defensive spell, Miss Granger! You surely aren’t expecting to be attacked during class...?”

“We’re not going to use magic?” Blurted Ron, stunned.

Anger flashed across Umbridge’s jowly face. “Students _raise their hands_ when they wish to speak in my class, Mr…?” 

“Weasley,” said Ron, whose hand was now in the air. Beside him, Harry and Hermione’s hands were up, too. Quinn was inclined to say a few things herself, but thought better of it when she remembered what had happened earlier. _Surely I’ve said enough to make my classmates hate me for one day._

“... Yes, Miss Granger? You wanted to ask something else?”

“Yes, I do,” said Hermione. “Surely the whole point of Defence Against the Dark Arts is to _practice_ defensive spells?”

“Are you a Ministry–trained educational expert, Miss Granger?” Professor Umbridge challenged.

Hermione reddened. “No, but—”

Umbridge interrupted her with another hideous laugh. “Well then, I’m afraid you are not qualified to decide what the ‘whole point’ of any class is, are you? From now on, you will be learning about defensive spells in a secure, _risk–free_ way—”

Quinn’s hand shot up in the air. Around her, there were groans of dread and even a _“here we go again”,_ but she turned a deaf ear to it; if she held her tongue any longer, it was like to burst from her mouth. “Well, my father is ‘Ministry–trained’, and—”

“There is no need to provide a background for whatever it is you’re going to say,” said Umbridge, interrupting her before she could even make her point. “I know all about you, dear, and your father. As I’m sure you are aware, we know each other quite well; in fact, we correspond regularly.” She covered the threat with a smile that dripped acid. “Now, what was it you wished to say?”

Quinn could be a fool with her tongue sometimes— that much was certain— but she wasn’t daft. She knew what Umbridge was insinuating; heard the threats lying unspoken beneath her smiles and casual mentions of Alistair. Quinn couldn’t say what she had planned to now; not if her father was going to hear about it. 

Her hand dropped back to her desk with a thud. “Sorry, Professor,” she said through clenched teeth. “Strangely, I seem to have forgotten what I was going to say.”

“Well, I haven’t,” said Harry loudly. “What use is learning in a ‘risk–free’ way? If we’re going to be attacked, it won’t be—”

“Hand, Mr. Potter!” Umbridge trilled. 

Harry’s hand shot up in the air, but too late; Umbridge had already moved on to another student. 

“It’s like Harry said, isn’t it?” Said Dean Thomas, whose dark eyes were narrowed in confusion. “If we’re going to be attacked, it won’t be ‘risk–free’.”

“I repeat,” said Professor Umbridge, in a voice thin with impatience, “do you expect to be attacked during my classes?”

“No, but—”

Umbridge interrupted him before he could even get out a sentence. “I do not wish to criticize the way things have been run in this school, but you have been exposed to some very irresponsible wizards in this class…” 

Quinn glared down at her desk, no longer listening; she’d lost interest in the argument given that she could no longer partake. It was only the first day of class, and yet she could already tell that it was going to be a long, long year. _I should have saved that wish,_ she thought, remembering the Flitterby dust she had blown earlier. _I could have wished for a new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor._ It was too late now. 

She resumed listening just as tensions started to increase, toying with her quill, only half–interested. 

“So, we’re not supposed to be prepared for what’s waiting out there?” Harry was saying.

Umbridge was still smiling that sickeningly sweet smile she had. “Who do you imagine wants to attack children like yourselves?” 

“Hmm, let’s think…” Said Harry in mock consideration. “... Maybe Lord Voldemort?”

Ron gasped, Aurelia gave a small scream, Neville Longbottom slipped sideways from his stool, and Quinn’s quill fell from her grasp, drifting silently to the floor and landing at her feet.

Umbridge, however, was not fazed. “Ten points from Gryffindor, Mr. Potter.” She stood from her chair and leaned toward them, her face a mask of grim determination. “Now let me make a few things quite plain. You have been told that a certain dark wizard has returned from the dead... This is a lie.” 

_“It is NOT a lie!”_ Harry interrupted, slamming a fist on his desk. “I saw him; I _fought_ him!”

“Detention, Mr. Potter!” Cried Umbridge. “Tomorrow evening. Five o’clock. My office. I repeat, this is a lie. The Ministry of Magic guarantees that you are not in danger from any Dark wizard. If you are still worried, by all means come and see me outside class hours. If someone is alarming you with fibs about reborn Dark wizards, I would like to hear about it. I am here to help. I am your friend. And now, you will kindly continue your reading. Page five, ‘Basics for Beginners’.” 

Quinn was just in the midst of reaching for her fallen quill when she heard the sound of a chair scraping on stone. She looked up to see that Harry had risen from his seat, hands clenched into fists at his sides. “So, according to you, Cedric Diggory dropped dead of his own accord, did he?” He asked, in a voice trembling with anger. 

“Cedric Diggory’s death was a _tragic_ accident.”

“It was murder,” Harry insisted. His knuckles had gone white. “Voldemort killed him, and you know it.”

The class waited with bated breath to hear what Umbridge would say; if she would yell at him. Then she beckoned him to her desk with a soft, “come here, Mr. Potter, dear,” and sent him off on his way with a note for Professor McGonagall. 

“Now…” She smoothed down the cloth of her skirt and sank back into her seat. “Page five, ‘Basics for Beginners’.” 

Quinn opened her book and flipped to the page, but her mind was elsewhere. Now more than ever, she believed that Harry Potter was telling the truth.


	5. 𝐕.  What Goes Up Must Come Down

⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𝐐 𝐔 𝐈 𝐍 𝐍

𝐈𝐓 was cold outside, but the good kind of cold; the kind that reminded her she was alive.

Quinn’s first lesson of the year in Charms had been that morning, which left her in a much better mood than she’d been in the previous day; it _was_ her favourite subject, after all, and she’d been achieving top marks in the class since her first year at Hogwarts.

Her father’s voice rang in her head, cold with disappointment: “Getting the top grade in Charms and slacking off in everything else won’t make you a bureaucrat for the Ministry.” 

Quinn didn’t even understand why he _cared._ The Avery family was as rich as their blood was pure, with an heirloom manor and enough inherited wealth to last forever and ever… Or as close to that as it got. The only reason why Alastair bothered working for the Ministry in the first place was to maintain his reputation in the wizarding world, just as his father once had before him. 

_And now he’s expecting me to do the same._ She scoffed. _Figures._

Gravel crunched and squeaked beneath her boots as she trod her way down the ribbon of grey path that encompassed the castle. Around her, the world was damp and dreary, and as she turned off the path and began descending the slope that led to Hagrid’s hut, Quinn felt the beginnings of rain fall on her cheeks.

Not wanting her makeup to smudge and hair to frizz, she drew her wand and gave it a single tap against her chest. _“Impervius.”_

When the next raindrop landed on her head, it simply rolled off, leaving the hair beneath dry. 

A long trestle table had been assembled some ten yards from Hagrid’s front door, on top of which Quinn could see a hundred twigs scattered. Leaned over them was Hermione’s bushy brown head, though oddly enough, there was no one else with her. 

Quinn frowned. _She_ always _arrives to class with Harry and Ron, especially after a lunch break..._

She wasn’t able to dwell on their absence long, for just then someone stepped in front of her, so abruptly that she bumped into them and nearly lost her footing. 

_Malfoy._ Her heart skipped a beat. _Or several._

There was no gel in his hair today; he had simply parted it to the side, a neatly–combed cascade of white–blond hair that Quinn knew had likely been preceded by an hour in front of the mirror. “Careful, the wind is strong today,” he said in that sneer of a voice he had to Theodore Nott, who she had only just realized was standing beside him. They both snickered.

“Congratulations,” she said dryly. “You’re a comedic genius.” 

Draco made a show of scanning the air above her head. “D’you hear that?”

Nott shaded his eyes with a hand and looked around. “A voice from nowhere… Must be a poltergeist,” he concluded. 

Quinn was used to this act. “Down here.”

Finally Draco looked down and met her gaze. She wished he hadn’t.

A strange, sinking sort of feeling came rushing through her stomach, as though she had dropped suddenly while riding a broom. Quinn had to look away. She was angry with herself for that, and angry with Draco Malfoy most of all. He made her forget how to breathe. 

“Oh, Quinnifred!” He exclaimed with mock enthusiasm. “Couldn’t see you down there.” 

Quinn went to walk past him, but she didn’t make it very far; Draco had cut off her escape, stepping in front of her for what was now the second time that afternoon. When she lifted her head, she saw that he was staring at her; scrutinizing her every move with those grey eyes of his, the way he always did when she wasn’t acting the way he expected.

She gave a tired sigh. “Care to get out of my way, Malfoy?”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “No, don’t think I will, short stack.” 

Quinn lifted a hand to her heart in mock offence. “And here I’d have thought you’d _appreciate_ me being short.”

“And why in Salazar’s name is that?”

She met his gaze with a smirk. “It’s the only way I’ll ever look up to you.” 

There was quiet laughter from some Gryffindor students standing nearby. Draco bristled. “Hair’s not messy,” he observed. “Decide to eat lunch today instead of spreading your legs for Scarhead?” 

Quinn was tempted to deny ever ‘spreading her legs for Scarhead’ in the first place, then remembered Draco’s strange behaviour on the train and made the decision to toy with him instead. “After almost running late to class yesterday, we thought it best to save _those_ activities for suppertime.” 

“Perhaps you should consider saving them for _after_ meals instead,” came Pansy’s shrill voice behind her, like nails on a chalkboard. “You look like you could use the extra food, bonerack.” 

“And _you_ look like you could use less,” said Quinn as Pansy joined Draco in front of her. “You do realize your robes aren’t supposed to fit tight, don’t you?”

Anger flashed across Pansy’s gaunt face. “Keep talking like that and one of these days you’re going to get punched, Avery,” she warned.

Quinn gave an indifferent shrug. “Everyone says that, and yet no one has. I’m starting to think I should just do it myself and save them the hassle.”

Pansy scoffed. “Let’s go, Draco. She’s a waste of our time.” They turned away to join their friends, and Quinn was left to wonder if there was _really_ a mind inside Pansy Parkinson, or if there was just a faint buzz, like a bee in a glass jar.

In any case, she was glad to be rid of Malfoy. 

Hermione was eyeing the twigs strewn in front of her with an unnerving amount of enthusiasm when Quinn drew up at the table. “I’m _so_ excited for today’s lesson, aren’t you?” She gushed, brown eyes wide with wonder and a grin of anticipation on her lips.

“Oh, yes,” Quinn drawled with mock sincerity. “Small pieces of wood? Gee, I hope Hagrid never returns; that’s _so_ much more exhilarating than lobsters than can shoot flames out of their fannies.”

“They’re called blast–ended skrewts,” said Hermione. Then she gave her arm a tug. “Now shut up and look closer, would you?”

She did. To her surprise, the heap was moving, ever so slightly. “Ew! What _are_ those things?”

Hermione gave a coy smile. “Small pieces of wood, remember?”

Quinn supposed she deserved that answer.

Harry and Ron joined them at the table then, red–faced and breathless from running down the hill. Hermione was quick to greet Harry, but made somewhat of a show of ignoring Ron, who was now glaring daggers at the back of her bushy head. 

“What’s with them?” Quinn asked Harry, in a whisper.

“Nothing unusual,” he huffed. Then he perked up. “Are we still practicing tonight?”

Quinn frowned. “Practicing…?”

“Flying,” he clarified. “I asked if you wanted to before the Start–of–Term Feast, remember?”

No, she did not. “... Sorry, it must have slipped my memory. What time were you thinking?”

Harry looked crestfallen. “Five, on the Quidditch pitch. Oh, and before I forget to ask… Can Ron come? He’s trying out this year as well.” 

Quinn shot a quick glance at Ron out of the corner of her eye. They were friends now, it seemed, but it hadn’t always been that way; in first year, he had been rude to her on more than one occasion, and in second year, he’d been downright cruel. Most of it had to do with her being a Slytherin. Whenever she and the others would talk, there was no shortage of glares and abusive remarks on Ron’s end, with one popular go–to being: _“You’re not seriously making friends with one of_ them, _are you?”_ He stopped when he realized that she wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon, but he still hadn’t apologized for the way he treated her. It just sort of went away, and now they got on as though there had never been any animosity between them in the first place. 

“... Sure, he can come,” Quinn decided.

On the other side of her, Draco and the others were drawing up at the table. Seamus Finnigan had clearly been standing in the wrong place at the wrong time; Draco shoved him out of his way so roughly that he slipped and fell, getting mud all over himself.

“Watch where you’re going, you git,” said Seamus as he got back to his feet.

Crabbe and Goyle were quick to step in front of Draco. “You were saying, half–blood?” He jeered from behind the security of their backs. 

Seamus looked them over, thought better of his chances, then accepted the loss and stalked off.

Quinn eyed Draco carefully. “Was that _really_ necessary? There were other spots.”

“I wanted a good view,” he snapped. “Not that I need to explain myself to _you_.”

The view of the table was the same from every side, but before Quinn could say as much, Grubbly–Plank drew up with a bucket in tow.

“Everyone here?” She asked. When no one answered, she said, “good, let’s crack on then. Who can tell me what these things are called?” On the Malfoy–free side of Quinn, Hermione’s hand shot up in the air. “Miss Granger?” 

“Bowtruckles,” said Hermione, matter–of–factly. “They’re tree–guardians; usually reside in wand–trees.”

On the other side of Draco, Quinn heard Pansy Parkinson snort. “Tree guardians? They just look like a bunch of sticks to me. What use could _they_ be for guarding anything?”

Grubbly–Plank was not pleased to hear that. “Kindly keep your voice down, Miss Parkinson, unless you have something insightful to add to the conversation.” She turned her gaze on Hermione. “As for you, Miss Granger: five points for Gryffindor.”

Pansy was positively red.

“Yes, these are bowtruckles,” Professor Grubbly–Plank went on. “And as Miss Granger rightly put it, they generally live in trees whose wood is of wand quality.” She brushed aside some of the twigs and hoisted the bucket she’d been carrying up onto the table. “Now… Does anyone know what they eat?”

Quinn lazily raised a hand. “Let me guess… Whatever’s in that bucket?”

Grubbly–Plank looked less than impressed by the response. “Very funny, Miss Avery, but I was hoping for a more specific answer.” She looked around. “Yes, Miss Granger?” 

“Wood lice,” said Hermione, “but fairy eggs if they can get them.”

Quinn stood up on her tiptoes to catch a glimpse of the bucket’s contents. It looked like there was brown rice inside, but she had a sinking feeling that it was something else.

“Another five points for Gryffindor,” said Grubbly–Plank. “You’ve certainly done your homework, Miss Granger! Now… A bowtruckles’ sharp, twig–like fingers have certainly proven themselves to be an excellent tool for digging out wood lice in trees, but they are also used for something else… Would anyone like to guess what that might be?”

Hermione raised her hand again, and seconds later, everyone was laughing.

Quinn followed her classmates’ stares to see Draco doing a buck–toothed impression of Hermione, hand raised and jumping up and down in eagerness.

When Quinn turned back to check on her friend, she saw that her hand now hung limp at her side, and her eyes were quickly filling up with tears, big and wet, rolling off her lashes when she blinked. The sight of them sent anger rushing through her in a white–hot flash, and before Quinn even knew what she was doing, her wand was out and pointed right at Draco’s pale face. “If you wanted longer teeth, Malfoy, then you should have just said it,” she flared. _“Densaugeo!”_

Her wand sparked, and Draco cried out, his hands rushing to cover his mouth. A quiet settled over the class as they waited to see what had happened… And when Pansy Parkinson finally reached up and pulled his hands aside, that quiet soon turned to laughter. 

Draco looked more beaver than boy: his front teeth had begun to grow at an alarming rate, already down past his lower lip and quickly headed toward his chin. “You’ll pay for thith,” he lisped as he reached into his robe pocket. “Thinthe we’re in Care of Magical Creatureth… _Anteoculatia!”_

There was no time to shield herself: a strange sensation came rushing through her scalp, crackling like lightning, and leaving her head feeling _very_ heavy. She teetered, laying a hand down on the table to steady herself.

Suddenly, everyone was laughing at her.

“Nice antlers, Avery!” Pansy cried over the clamor. Quinn’s hands scrambled to her head to feel, and sure enough… “What, nothing to say now? ‘Deer’ in the headlights?”

Her anger flashed. “Eat slugs, you empty–headed twat!” She cried as she pointed her wand at Pansy. _“Slugulus Er—”_

_“Expelliarmus!”_

Professor Grubbly–Plank’s voice cracked like a whip. In an instant, Quinn’s wand had flown from her hand and into the grass, a yard away. She ran after it and knelt down to pick it up.

“Fifty points from Slytherin for each of you,” Grubbly–Plank was saying as she walked her fat arse over to their side of the table. “Despicable behaviour! Just _despicable!_ And from prefects, no less…” She seized the two of them by a fistful of their robes and began dragging them back up the hill toward the castle. “... I will be sending letters home to both your parents!”

“What?” Said Quinn, mortified. “But Professor… That isn’t fair! He _deserved_ it, you saw—”

“What Mr. Malfoy does or does not deserve is none of your concern,” snapped Grubbly–Plank in a voice shrill with anger. “Students do _not_ hand out punishments in this school, and most certainly not ones in the form of hexes! Detention tonight with Professor Snape, both of you!”

“Excuthe me, but I think you’ve been mithtaken,” lisped Draco, whose teeth were now down past his chin. “_Thhe_ thtarted it. Am I not allowed to defend mythelf?”

Grubbly–Plank just waved a dismissive hand in his direction. “As I said: detention tonight, both of you. Have I made myself clear?”

“Crystal,” said Quinn.

“Now off you go to Madam Pomfrey. She can reverse the spells and write a note to Headmaster Dumbledore explaining what you’ve done to make yourselves absent from the rest of your classes this afternoon.” 

They glared at eachother but did as they were told, not wanting to dig themselves into a deeper hole.

Draco complained the whole way to the hospital wing: “Thith ith all your fault. I hope you’re pleathed with yourthelf. Detention… Jutht thplendid.”

“I, for one, think Grubbly–Plank should have let us stay,” she drawled. “I’d have liked to see how much wood you can chuck with those canines.”

“Thhut your gob,” he snapped.

There were a great many things Quinn was inclined to do, but _“thhutting her gob”_ was not often one of them. “There’s no need to be so sensitive, Malfoy. I think the new look is an improvement; it suits your big head.” 

He whirled on her when they arrived at the doors of the hospital wing, something angry and untamed burning behind his steel grey eyes. It was certainly an interesting sight with the current predicament of his teeth. “Do you think thith ith funny?” He demanded when she began to laugh. “I’m going to mith Potionth today becauthe of you!”

“Because of me?” She had to scoff. “You say that like it’s _my_ fault you decided to put antlers on my head. Get over yourself. It’s only one day.”

“Ath if you’d be thaying the thame about your bloody Charmth.”

That was true, she had to concede. “Well, you never should have made fun of Hermione.”

His lips curled into a sneer. “I’ll make fun of that vile Mudblood whenever I pleathe.” 

Her hand went into her pocket for her wand. The wood was warm against her hand; a reassurance. “Don’t call her that word, Malfoy.” 

He met her gaze, a challenge looming in those deep grey eyes. “Which one? Mudblood?”

She drew her wand and pressed it up against the underside of his chin, behind his elongated teeth. 

“Go on, hexth me,” he lisped. “You haven’t the courage to do it again.”

She dug her wand in deeper. “Care to find out?” Inside, her heart was beating wildly in her chest, like a drum played by a rabbit; all speed and no rhythm. “You’re not going to call her that word again. _Ever_.”

He glared down at her. “Ath if _you’re_ above it. We’re jutht the thame, you and I.”

“We are _not_,” she flared. “I’m nothing like you.”

“You’re wrong,” he told her. “We _are_ alike, in more wayth than you realithe. You’ll know that thoon enough.”

Madam Pomfrey came rushing out into the hall then, wringing those bony hands of hers and muttering up a storm. “... Children! What in Merlin’s name have you done? Oh, this will take hours to undo, you’ll miss the rest of your classes this afternoon…”

… And so they did. That was fine by Quinn; she hated Potions class, or anything to do with measurements, math, and _‘being exact’_ for that matter.

“What time is it?” She asked Draco as they left the hospital wing, her head feeling much lighter and his teeth looking much smaller. 

He just scowled at her. “Do I look like a watch?”

Quinn gave him the once–over. “No, you look like a prat. Now tell me.”

He sighed but pulled his pocket watch out all the same. It was a shining platinum contraption with twelve hands, all wrought in different metals. An assortment of symbols were moving in a circle around the edge— numbers, planets, constellations— and on the inside of the hinged lid was an engraving, marked in runes. Quinn thought it seemed a horribly impractical way to tell time. 

“It’s a quarter to five,” he told her as he clasped it shut. “Why d’you ask?”

“I have plans,” she said simply.

“Plans.” He scoffed. “With who?”

“Harry.”

Draco stared down at her in incredulous disgust. “I thought you were taking the piss about shagging him.” He spat the words out like venom. “It’s repulsive, he’s a complete nutter, my father says it’s only a matter of time before he’s carted off to St. Mungo’s, wasn’t even good enough to be made prefect this year, lost it to that peasant, Weasley...” He was talking a mile a minute, and Quinn could hardly understand a word he was saying. 

She sighed. “We’re just—”

Draco wouldn’t stop. “I knew your standards were low, but I didn’t peg you as the type to go slagging it around—”

“If you would just let me speak, then you’d know that we’re not—”

“Don’t waste your breath denying it now; just wait until Cori hears about this, he’s going to—” 

“Would you shut up and listen?” She snapped. “I _was_ taking the piss. Harry and I aren’t shagging; we’re practicing flying.”

Quinn swore something close to relief passed over his face, though it lasted no more than a second before twisting back into a sneer. “And why in Merlin’s name would _you_ need to practice flying?”

“Because I’m trying out for the Quidditch team this year, you nosy prat.”

He burst into laughter. “_You?_ I’d like to see you try!”

“You will,” she told him. “Unless Daddy’s bribe isn’t good enough anymore and Flint decides to get a Seeker with some real talent.” 

Draco’s mouth fell open, but before he could reply, Professor Snape came striding around the corner, black robes swirling at his feet. “I’ve been informed by Professor Grubbly–Plank that you two have earned yourselves seats in detention tonight,” he said coldly. “I want you in the Potions classroom by nine o’clock… _Sharp._ Arrive so much as a second later, and you can expect to be in for another.”

“What are we doing?” Asked Quinn.

Snape turned that icy gaze of his on her. “That is for _me_ to decide, Miss Avery.”

_I know that, you greasy old bag, that’s why I asked,_ she was tempted to say. 

Thankfully, Snape went on talking before she could dig herself into a deeper hole. “You’ll be brewing potions for Madam Pomfrey, seeing as you two decided to burden her with your presence instead of attending class today,” he said, his voice as cold and calculated as ever. “And in case you need to be reminded… Not a minute later, or you’ll have earned yourselves a second detention.”

With that, he turned away from them and swept off.

“Charming, isn’t he?” She said dryly.

Silence. 

Quinn couldn’t have been more relieved to reach the Entrance Hall: she parted from Draco as soon as they stepped inside, headed straight for the door that led down to the dungeons.

“And where are you off to in such a hurry?” He called scathingly behind her.

“I have plans, remember?” She answered, without looking back at him. Classes would be over soon, and she had to get to the dormitories and smuggle her brother’s Firebolt out onto the pitch before anyone saw her. Cori had always been a real tightwad when it came to his shit. 

Thankfully Draco did not follow, nor did she run into her brother. The bell rang just as she was putting her hair up in a ponytail, and by the time she’d finished changing her clothes and arrived at the pitch, Harry and Ron were already there waiting.

“That was some show in Care of Magical Creatures,” said Ron. He was wearing a helmet and shoulder pads, and the broom he had in his hand looked older than he was. “You really put Malfoy in his place.” 

_Yes,_ she thought cynically, _and a whole lot of good that’s done me._

“What happened after Grubbly–Plank dismissed you from class?” Asked Harry, as though he had read her mind. “She wouldn’t tell us anything.”

“I was sentenced to brewing potions for Pomfrey tonight,” Quinn told him.

“Worth it,” said Ron.

“With Draco,” she added. “_And_ Snape.” 

He gave a little shudder. “On second thought… Not worth it.”

Harry’s gaze fell to the broom she was holding. “You’ve got the same one as me.”

“Oh, it isn’t mine. It’s my brother’s.”

Ron looked shocked to hear that. “He gave you permission to use it?” 

She raised a brow. “When did I say anything about having permission?”

A smile broke out across his freckled face.

“So, do you know how to fly?” Asked Harry, who seemed eager to get on with things.

Quinn more than ‘knew how’. It was one of her favourite pastimes, especially during the summer holidays when things got boring without magic. The sky open above her, the world spread out below her, and the wind in her hair… There wasn’t a better feeling than that. “Yes, I’m well and good on that front. It’s playing and technique I’m worried about.”

“Right… D’you know what position you want to try for yet?” Asked Ron.

Quinn considered a moment, fiddling with the hem of her sleeve. “I was thinking Keeper…”

He gave a goofy smile. “Wicked, that’s me too.”

Harry cleared his throat. “Yes, well, it’s a place to start. Who wants to go first?”

Ron raised his hands in mock surrender. “Ladies first, mate.”

Harry turned back to face her. “Is that alright with you, Quinn? Ron and I can take turns trying to score on you, if you like, then you two can swap places.”

She nodded. “Sounds good to me.”

“Right, it’s settled then. You take position up by the hoops. We’ll shoot on just one for now, that way you can get used to it, then we’ll up the ante.”

She mounted the Firebolt, kicked up off the ground, and took to the skies. Her brother’s broom was much quicker than the Shooting Star she would leisurely fly at home; in a mere matter of seconds, she had flown from the middle of the pitch to the hoops, pulling herself to a stop just before she could crash into them. Adrenaline coursed through her body like electricity, and Quinn Avery could not recall ever feeling so alive.

“You alright up there?” Asked Harry, who was now mounting his own broom. 

She cupped her hands around her mouth. “Better than alright! I’m fantastic!” To prove it, she yanked up the handle of the broom and went higher, higher, and higher, until the world grew small beneath her, and Harry and Ron were nothing but dots. 

She saw the world as the birds saw it: the gently lapping waters of the Black Lake, the snow blowing in clouds of white off the mountaintops, and the trees of the Forbidden Forest swaying in unison, like some sort of strange dance… It was beautiful, but the wind was stronger up there, and colder, so Quinn could not stay long. _What goes up must always come down._

And down she went, spiralling and laughing, just narrowly missing a passing bird as she drew to a stop in front of the three hoops.

“Ready?” Harry shouted from further down the pitch.

“As I’ll ever be,” she called back, and with that, he came streaking toward her, the Quaffle in hand.

Quinn had intended to block the throw, but instead she found herself recoiling away from it, diving beneath the hoop and flinching as the ball soared over her head.

“He shoots, he scores,” Ron cried as he whizzed by to retrieve it.

Harry looked abashed. 

“Bloody hell, Quinn,” said Ron as he drew up beside her, the ball now in tow. “You’re s’posed to _block_ the Quaffle, not dodge it!”

“Just testing my reflexes,” she said at once. 

“Well, you might want to try _‘testing your reflexes’_ at blocking it next time,” he told her before gliding off to the middle of the pitch, the Quaffle tucked under his arm.

It was Ron’s turn to score on her now, and Quinn had a sneaking suspicion that he was not going to go easy.

Unfortunately, that suspicion was proved right: Ron flew at her with all the speed that old broom of his could muster, and once he’d gotten startlingly close, hurled the ball at her with ten times the strength behind it than Harry had used. 

There wasn’t even time to scream, let alone dive out of the line of fire; the ball hit her hard, sucking the air out of her chest, and, subsequently, her arse off of the broom. 

The realization that she was falling hit harder than the Quaffle had. Thinking about that might have made her laugh hysterically, if she could breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure how I feel about this chapter, but alas. What do you guys think is going to happen next? 
> 
> Quinn has been a really interesting character to write thus far. Her greatest strength is also her greatest flaw: her mouth. It definitely makes her a bit unlikeable, but I can’t imagine her any other way. I know we’re only five chapters in, but how does everyone feel about her? What do you like, dislike?


	6. 𝐕𝐈.  Trouble Brewing

⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𝐃 𝐑 𝐀 𝐂 𝐎

𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐎 flicked a chunk of carrot off his plate with open disinterest. “Beef casserole? Steak and kidney pudding? Honestly, it’s like the house–elves are _trying_ to poison us. Someone ought to beat those mangy little creatures. My father always beat ours.”

“Mine too,” said Crabbe in agreement. 

Draco was about to ask if Crabbe even had any house–elves to begin with when he realized he didn’t care. He stood from the table and slung his rucksack over one shoulder.

“Where are you off to?” Asked Goyle.

“The Quidditch pitch,” Draco told him. “Coming?”

Crabbe and Goyle scrambled up out of their seats, quick to please. As the three of them made their way toward the double doors of the Great Hall, Draco saw them stuffing handfuls of food into their pockets from the corner of his eye.

Pansy was standing with some of her girl friends in the entrance hall when Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle entered. They were all giggles and darting eyes, like they were waiting for someone to pass by. Draco had a sinking feeling he knew who that ‘someone’ was. 

Suddenly, he was glad Quinn made plans that evening.

“Shouldn’t we grab our brooms first?” Asked Crabbe as Draco pushed open the tall oak door that led outside.

“No. Won’t need them for what I’ve got planned.” He went to step out then, but something— or some_one,_ rather— was standing in the way. Draco crashed into them head–on and send them reeling backward on their arse.

“Watch where you’re going, you pathetic little runt!” He snapped.

A mousy–looking boy with large brown eyes that Draco knew to be Colin Creevey looked up at him tearfully. “Sorry— so sorry, I really am— it’s my fault, I wasn’t paying attention…”

“Clearly.” Draco gave him the once–over. Slung around the boy’s neck was a long black strap attached to a Muggle camera. “That camera you’ve got. Can you develop the photos here, at Hogwarts?”

Chewing his lip, Colin took a moment to consider. “Well, it takes a while… I’ve got to brew a special potion to develop them in, see, since there’s no photo–processing chemicals here and all…” 

“Spare me the particulars,” said Draco impatiently. “How long will it take?”

“It varies, really,” Colin told him. “Brewing the potion only takes about an hour, but first I’ve got to ask permission to make it, and Snape doesn’t like me very much, so sometimes he doesn’t get back to me for days, and after that I’ve got to let the photos develop overnight, and then…”

“Out with it already, Creevey!” Draco snapped.

Colin flinched. “Okay, okay! Two… Two days, maybe?” 

“Make it one,” said Draco. Behind him, Goyle cracked his knuckles.

Colin gulped. “Alright, one, then. What is it you need taken…?”

Draco nodded toward the Quidditch pitch. “Follow me.” This was it, the opportunity he’d been waiting for; he was going to catch Quinn and Potter in the act, and Colin was going to capture photos of the whole thing on his camera. _One owl to Alistair and their pathetic little fling is over._ It was going to be fantastic. He could hear the Howler already…

“Er… What _is_ it you’ve got planned, Draco?” Said Goyle uncertainly.

Draco smirked. “S’pose you’ll see when we get there.”

In truth, he wasn’t sure how to say he was spying on Quinn and Potter without making it sound like he was spying on Quinn and Potter.

After descending a flight of steep stone steps, Draco set off toward the Quidditch stadium. He stopped Crabbe and Goyle with a hand as they drew up at the entrance. “Get back. Last thing I need is you two oafs getting us caught.”

“Caught?” Crabbe made a face. “What d’you mean?”

Draco just glared at him. After that they kept moving, silently now, with him in the lead and Colin Creevey close behind. 

He stopped when he came to the mouth of the entrance and crouched. Hovering a few feet off the ground in the middle of the pitch were Potter and Weasley, laughing as they tossed the Quaffle back and forth. Quinn was nowhere in sight. 

“Where is she?” Draco demanded to no one in particular. _I’ve got to get this over with quickly._ He couldn’t risk someone seeing him lurking around with Mudblood scum like Colin Creevey, even if it _was_ for a good cause.

Colin cleared his throat. “Um… So, what is it you want me to take pictures of, exactly…?”

“Nothing just yet,” said Draco irritably. “We’ve got to wait until the right moment…”

When he turned back toward the pitch, Quinn was hovering in front of the centermost goal post, mounted atop what looked like (and probably was, knowing her) Cori’s Firebolt. 

_Her form is wrong,_ Draco noted scornfully. She was sitting on it flat, instead of on an angle like you were supposed to, and she wasn’t gripping the handle right. 

Just then, Potter swept by. Draco fell back into the shadows and watched as he threw the Quaffle at Quinn, who dove beneath the goal post and let it soar through. 

“_What_ in the name of Merlin is she doing?” Said Draco in frustration. 

“Who cares?” Said Goyle. 

“Yeah, I thought you had a plan,” added Crabbe. 

Draco whirled on them. “I _have_ got a plan,” he snarled, “and if either of you have got a problem waiting, then why don’t you go on back to the Great Hall and stuff your faces like the pigs you—”

_“AHHHHHHH!”_

Colin Creevey let out a shrill scream. Draco spun back toward the pitch and was met with a sight that turned his anger to horror at once: somehow, Quinn had been knocked off of her broom, and she was now plummeting headlong toward the ground.

Weasley was streaking toward her; Potter was frantically patting the pockets of his Quidditch robes for his wand. Draco’s heart fell to his stomach with the realization that they were not going to make it in time. 

Suddenly, he was moving by some unseen force onto the Quidditch green, and his own wand was out, and he heard himself cry, _“Arresto Momentum!”_

Quinn’s free fall turned feather slow. Draco came to his senses when she was less than a metre away from the ground, after which he lowered his wand hand and let her drop the rest of the way. 

He waited until she had gotten back to her feet to approach, clearing the distance between them in long, purposeful strides. “What in Salazar’s name were you thinking?” Draco demanded. He grabbed her by the shoulders and gave her a rough shake. “You could’ve died, you bleeding idiot!”

Quinn gazed up at him, for a moment confused. Then that sodding smirk was back on her face. “Yes, because I _meant_ to start plummeting to my death.”

“... You aren’t even wearing protection,” he realized, out loud. For some reason, that only served to make him angrier.

There was a sudden flash of white light so intense it made Draco see spots. 

“I waited until the right moment, just like you said, Draco!” Colin Creevey was saying in excitement. “This’ll be a great article for the school newspaper! How did you know that was going to happen?”

Before Draco could wring his neck, Scarhead and Weasel drew up, faces contorted with rage. 

_“MALFOY!”_ Potter cried in that petulant voice of his. _“Let her go!”_ Amidst all the chaos, Draco hadn’t even realized that he was still holding Quinn by the shoulders. 

He whirled on Potter and Weasley, letting his arms drop to his sides. “Are you two imbeciles _so_ inept that you would play a girl with no padding on?” 

Potter glared up at him. “Mind your own business, Malfoy.”

Crabbe and Goyle were there now, right behind him. With a rush of confidence from their presence, Draco got right in Potter’s scarred face and said, “with pleasure.” Then he decided that it was well past time to go and turned away from them, beckoning for his friends to follow. Colin hurried after them with his camera.

“What the bloody _hell_ just happened?” Said Weasley back behind them.

Internally, Draco was asking himself the same exact question.

_I should have let her fall. Why didn’t I just let her fall?_ His life would have been a hell of a lot easier without Quinn Avery in it: no detentions, no letters home, and no duels in the middle of class. Even Potter wasn’t that daft. She was arrogant, she was reckless, and she always had to have the last word, and Draco hated her for it.

He was no closer to figuring out why he’d done it by the time detention rolled around, rearing its great ugly head. Draco had gotten there five minutes early, of course, and he was beginning to think that Quinn wasn’t going to bother showing up at all when she finally arrived. _Never early and never late,_ he thought bitterly. _Just on time. As always._

As expected, she sat down in the farthest seat possible from his own. Draco turned away from her and glared down at his desk, waiting to hear a second thud.

_Thump._

There it was: her rucksack. Quinn always dropped it the same way, at the beginning of every class, right on the floor at her feet instead of hanging it over her chair like a civilized person. He’d been tempted to make fun of her for it since their first year at Hogwarts, but he didn’t want her to know he cared enough about her existence to realize she did it. 

“Not _there,_ Miss Avery,” Snape said pointedly.

“And where would you have me sit instead?” She challenged. Predictably.

“There is an unoccupied seat next to Mr. Malfoy,” said Snape. “How coincidental.” 

Draco waited to hear her fire back at him, but surprisingly, Quinn was silent for once. He heard a chair scrape on stone, then she was plunking down into the empty seat next to him, throwing her rucksack to the floor with added force. 

Snape stood from behind his desk and swept over to them, a piece of parchment in hand. He unfurled it and laid it down on the table before them. “You have two hours. I expect every last potion on that list complete and of the highest quality when your time is up. If not, you’ll spend tomorrow evening correcting your mistakes.”

Quinn made a face like she’d eaten something sour. “You mean you want us to work together?”

Snape’s lips curled into a sneer. “Seeing as you have the alchemy talent of a Muggle toddler and I won’t be here to supervise, yes. I expect it.”

Draco hid his face behind his hands and sniggered. 

In an instant, Snape’s gaze had turned on him. “Need I remind you, Mr. Malfoy, that this is a detention?” He said, his voice a cold whisper. “Unless I am mistaken, and I rarely am, laughter is _not_ on your list of responsibilities this evening.” 

When neither he nor Quinn said anything, Snape went right on talking. “Get up, both of you, and start gathering your ingredients. _Now_.”

Draco did not need to be told twice. He stood up and reached for the list… At the same time as Quinn. Their hands brushed against each other, just barely, but she yanked hers back in such a hurry that if he hadn’t known any better, he’d of thought she’d burned it. 

Draco went for the list again. Quinn did not reach for it this time, though oddly, he caught himself wanting her to. He could still feel the ghost of her touch lingering on his hand as they went to the back of the classroom to retrieve their ingredients.

There was a rap at the door behind them, and less than a heartbeat later it creaked open and Umbridge stuck her head inside. “Children,” she acknowledged them with a smile. Then her gaze turned on Snape. “Severus.”

Snape shot them one last look. “I advise you not to do anything _stupid_ in my absence,” he warned, his gaze lingering on Quinn. Then he followed Umbridge out of the classroom and shut the door behind him. 

“Thank you,” Quinn said at once.

“Please, there’s no need to thank me,” said Draco carelessly. “I realize my presence is a gift, but I’m feeling charitable today.”

“Would you shut up?” She snapped, interrupting him. Draco hated being interrupted. Interrupting was something Quinn did often. 

“I’m serious,” she went on. “Thank you. For saving me.”

Draco forced himself to laugh. “For saving you? Oh, please. That’s not _actually_ what you think, is it?”

Her face hardened. “It’s not what I think, Malfoy. It’s what happened.”

“I so _hate_ to be the bearer of bad news, but unfortunately your little fairytale rendition of events is wrong,” he told her. “I didn’t do it to save _you;_ I did it to save _myself_ from having to listen to my parents moan about you splatting like a pancake for the next few years of my life. That and having to actually _see_ you splat like a pancake. Merlin knows you’re ugly enough as it is.” That last part had been a lie, but Quinn would never hear him admit it.

She weighed him long and carefully with her eyes, as though trying to decide whether or not he was telling her the truth. “Curious,” she said finally.

Something inside him snapped. “Look, Quinnifred, I don’t know what the fuck you’re playing at, but I can assure you that it isn’t true.” 

She tried to suppress a smile and failed. “Oh, but it is. You were _scared_ for me today.”

Draco made the most disgusted face a human could manage. “I beg your pardon? I most certainly was _not_.”

“Were too.”

“Was not.”

“Were too.”

“Was not!”

_“Were too,”_ she said, with finality this time. “That’s why you yelled at Harry and Ron.” 

He forced a scoff. “Oh, please. Don’t flatter yourself; I yell at them every day. You just so happened to be my latest excuse.”

She paused, as though an idea had come to her suddenly. “Now that I think about it… What _were_ you doing at the pitch today?”

Draco had already prepared an explanation for that question. “In case you’ve forgotten, I actually _am_ on the Quidditch team, unlike you.”

“You didn’t have your broom with you,” she pointed out. “And that Creevey kid… He asked how you knew ‘that’ was going to happen. Did you?” 

“This is a detention, not a bloody interview,” he snapped. “I wasn’t worried about you, and if you fall off your broom at tryouts tomorrow, I swear to you on my name as a Malfoy that I will watch you plummet and enjoy every second of it. Now, is that it? Because we’ve got work to do, and I’d rather not have to spend another evening locked up in here with the likes of _you,_ thanks.”

That seemed to placate her. In a deafening silence, they finished gathering the ingredients on the list, then returned to their desks and set to work.

Draco had no doubt in his mind that Quinn hated him (or disliked him at the very least), but he couldn’t lie to himself: he liked her. A lot. Too much. _It’s just because she’s the only Slytherin with enough intelligence to put up a decent argument,_ he told himself, but that wasn’t quite the truth. Blaise Zabini was nothing short of brilliant, and besides, Draco _liked_ winning arguments. 

He wanted the side of Quinn he saw when she was with her friends, laughing and careless. It was a side she had never shown him, though he supposed he’d had a role to play in the reason behind that. 

_There’s nothing to envy,_ Draco told himself. What would he want with such a sappy, pathetic little friendship, anyway? Her and her saints’ troupe had each other’s backs, sure— Quinn had shown as much in Care of Magical Creatures when he’d made that vile Mudbitch cry— but Draco had that perk with his friends as well. Crabbe and Goyle always had him covered when some ruffian or another wanted to solve a fight with fists instead of words or magic, and he could depend on Pansy and Nott for insults when his wits fell short.

But he couldn’t deny it, at least not to himself… They only wanted to be around him because he was, well, Draco Malfoy. Without the name, he would be just like any other student, having to work their way up the food chain the old–fashioned way. 

Quinn didn’t care for any of that, it seemed; she had her friends and she was happy with them. It was admirable, in a way. If Pansy, or Daphne, or any of the other popular girls in their House offered her their hand in friendship, she would probably offer them her middle finger in return. _No, not probably… Most definitely._

“What are you smiling about over there?”

He blinked. _Had_ he been smiling? Merlin’s beard, he was. 

Draco forced a scowl. “Nothing that concerns the likes of _you_,” he told her. “And I’d advise you to get some work done. Don’t think I won’t tell Snape if you make me do it all. You might be able to get away with slacking off around your little Mudblood friend, Granger, but I won’t stand for—”

“Oh, shut up already,” said Quinn irritably. “You’ve been sitting there doing nothing for the past five minutes. If anyone’s slacking off, it’s you.”

Draco glanced down at the untouched mortar and pestle sitting in front of him. She was right. Again. 

Avoiding her stare of triumph, Draco reached into the pile of ingredients, grabbed a fistful of dried nettles, and ground them up until they were nothing but green powder. When he looked back at Quinn, he saw that she was smirking to herself, as though she knew some great secret that he didn’t.

Angrily, Draco stuffed a hand into his robes and withdrew his pocket watch. Less than twenty minutes had gone by since detention first began, and yet it felt like it had been forever. 

He clasped his watch shut with a sigh. It was going to be a _very_ long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, I apologize for the long wait for an update, and secondly, I hope you all enjoyed the new chapter! It was my first time writing from Draco’s perspective so I’m sure there are some mistakes, but I tried!


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